War/Peace. Matthew Vandenberg

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      if indeed

      you're that naughty/

      If you wanna cream

      shake your knees

      on the dance floor/

      Metaphors asleep,

      on the porch

      by the back door/

      Gotta wake 'em up,

      get 'em wet,

      make 'em dance more/

      Gotta take a chance,

      take a stance,

      break the dance floor/

      This'll be the beat

      that they ban

      in the dance hall/

      DJ's gonna freak

      coz this track

      wasn't planned for:

      spins the fuckin' disc

      'til it skips

      'til it can't walk/

      If I have a wish

      it's a clit

      on the dance floor/

      And if chicks insist:

      here's the hit

      you all asked for/

      Slit your fuckin' wrist

      or sniff coke

      'till your arse falls/

      Hedonic and broke,

      take a stroke,

      coz it's last call/

      Take her in your arms/

      If you're gay:

      take the bloke whore.'

      The Veronicas sing the chorus:

      "So what if I dive off the edge of my life

      And there’s nothing beneath?/

      What if I live like there’s nothing to lose

      just to die on my knees?/

      At least I’ll know

      I walked the dark/

      I took the scars/

      I risked it all

      and learned to love the fall###."

      Then Shaun:

      'She's just iron ore:

      way her gaze just irons y'all/

      Keeps you in an iron core:

      naked babe so ripe and raw/

      She the skin as tight as law/

      Stage all lit with lights and all . . .'

      'You look so red,' she says, brushing my cheek with two fingers, her nails as soft as petals.

      'Feel it too. Do you feel the light?' - Above us, the disco ball is spinning. It strikes a pose for several seconds and then spins again, twirls like a dancer, prancing: legs the beams of light which saturate our bodies, all colors of the fruit bowl, with succulent visual appeal, apparel definitive and sublime. - 'Some cells can respond to light photons, you know*. If special opsin genes are placed into our neurons, then the disco ball can become our God, and we can move to the music for one surreal, ethereal, eternal dance, totally addicted to bass, light, and the piercing gaze of strobe: these skinny, thin, fine, beaut legs. Don't blink – your eyes are perfect. Kiss me.' And not even the most elaborate equation*** could have predicted the motion of her lips as they, like thousands of animated legs, like wings of angels, brush against mine. This is the reason we can't live forever, our genes favor reproduction over longevity##. But why should we argue? Castration lengthens the life of a male, but who the fuck would want to be castrated, who the fuck wouldn't wanna fuck the concubines here in the sublime suburb of Bondi J, the sexy babes who inhabit these sharp-as-crystal crevices somewhere in the heart of Westfield BJ. It's a sharp image, clean, pristine and beautiful, her legs like pegs pinning you to the ground, she speaks, her voice raspy, demeanor keen, eager, and state cheerful.

      Her eyes are as wide as the lens of a telescope, each pair – one set from each beautiful pet – boundless in width when I relax my gaze and let the pairs unite. Arms like the legs of a cloud, the girls crawl closer to me, their fingers long, firm, and smooth, nails like fangs: their sexy snakes, fingers and tongues, more beautiful than any cock could ever be. And they inch closer to me as my cock pulsates to the beat of the sharp song. Ripe, juicy, sweet, a fruit basket rests at my feet. Inside are over ten different forbidden fruits, succulent, juicy and wet with perspiration.

      * * *

      We're inside a snow dome, all shook up. So it's hard to keep track of time and space or piece together the scene just right, but I'm down on my knees preparing to write. I look up at the ceiling – a shiny, clear, glass dome – and attempt to gather my thoughts. The stand-up act, the foreplay, the friction, and the reflection. And as I reflect on the night, as the light beams – the color of fireworks – fall onto my body as though droplets of water falling from clouds, her back is pressed firmly against mine. We don't move, frozen like maniquins, struck into a sublime pose, her lips a rose which has now bloomed. I see her reflection in the dome, her face the color of the passing clouds. This is when I realize – by reading the sky – that it is 7am and time for me to leave, when the sunlight begins to pour through every nautical square inch of the glass, through every crevice in the wall, begins to lick at her skin and mine as though a single tongue.

      The figures in the room slowly climb to their feet, like porcelain dolls caught in a slow dance. They move like puppets but freely, orderly, in a controlled manner, but expressively, as though dancers who have mastered the movements required for adequate self-expression. And they walk slow, like pens in the embrace of hands, caught up – cue Usher -, held tight, and moving like a cursive breeze. And I feel the collective heat from their bodies washing over me like the rain of a passing storm as they wander towards the door. Each smiles as she passes, lips moving slowly like how silk ribbons appear to under the control of ribbon dancers. I smile now, place a hand on my left shoulder, shrug, blush, and rise to my feet. My movements are still stiff, my steps not yet mastered. But I still manage to move so well, almost like a writer's wrist.

      I crouch and take in mine the hand of a girl whose back was pressed so firmly against mine all through the night: our lips in each other's embrace, tight, taught, stiff, but still soft, much like a subtle theme undefined.

      ******

      References

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