You know what the beast said? Nothing. He pounced upon those gorgeous thighs and dug in. His face buried deep into the crevices and melting insides. Asking, calling, screaming his name is a vixen so sparkling that her bubbles burst like fireworks at the rim of her wine.
He pushed upon the tethering decency and it ruptured into a scarlet dispersion. Around her corners he whimpered and along her curves he barked. Her marriage to the mishaps in life was broken as she gushed into harmony. Her frequency the same pitch as his growl. They both sung in the interiors of a chapel, worshipping. Calling out to metaphors and rhymes – Come! Dream of us!
Her actions were demanding, no, ordering redemption. Her sickness was not of the men. The burning timbers are laced with vines of dewy water, from watered mouths of hungry savages. He drums up in excitement, a fable of things he never got but always wrote down on every wall. He spoke madly, unending, about prisons. About being in places where the rooms engulfed his sleep. He went berserk with stories as the vixen’s tongue delivered him and he loudly proclaimed at the end – It was me! It Was Me!
Then something came unto him, “To be where I have been! To no distinction of pain and pleasure! To tremble with haughty nastiness! To sordid, infected treasures!” So he grabbed the ends of interpretation and tried to tie them together. He wants a circled meaningfulness, he wanted her to be howling forever. He wanted a dreary understanding, to consume her mind. He wanted her to live in happiness and yet never feel alive. He wanted to show her poetry, her dance he would design. He pulled her into a final stance, in the court of the crimson king. She heaved and cried and let him in, to witness the hollow within.