Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Inspired by: Blue Orchid - White Stripes
{It took me like a week and it's still not right...but to hell with it, I say.}

"Follow me," he says in that enchanting silver lullaby voice. His scars trace and dig into his flesh. A wicked lullaby; forever alibi. "Love me," she screams as he laughs and tilts his hat in the direction of the Carnival. "Step right up," he whispers slow and soft into her ear.

His hat is made out of bat wings and sewed together with the legs of venomous spiders. His face is a cut-out copy, all scratched and torn, before being put back together. Some of the pieces are missing and those lost patches are replaced by lizard's backs and the sinew from babies toes used as thread to stitch it back in place. His lips snake up his cheeks when he smiles and she crookedly acknowledges that that is perhaps his only real feature. His eyes are mirrors reflecting shadows of lost lives. It only seems right in the dark of night. He wears a suit of crimson and blue, tailored to fit his smug attitude. His shoes are plain, perhaps the only things that don't belong; to keep her sane, after all.

Sweetly he steps around the frame, making her the center spotlight; the claim to his fame. He twirls a serpent cane and flips it in the air. He was beautiful once. Someone must have loved him. She was something pure, once. A light in shadows cast at dawn. Can the lights go brighter? She can hear the sconcing scream of track and taste the effervescent drips of crystallized candy. She hears the haunting sirens in the background. Singing-no- they’re screaming. And suddenly everything - even the purple glow of alligator tongues and snapping jaws of the audience - seems right.

The lights bounce off of her now silver eyelashes. A tear streaks down her cheek and turns into turpentine. Her feet are molded onto platforms and as she walks her body cringes doubly. Her legs are decorated with barbed wire that run up their lengths and bite into tepid flesh. A tutu dawns her waist of abnormal lengths. Crimson and blue. Her arms are covered in crawling snakes and her shirt is made out of simpering spiders, linked together by the bloodshot veins of sleepless dolls' eyes. Her hair sticks out at angry angles, blotched with patches of crimson and blue, and matted with spider's nests. Her eyes make the honest mistake of catching the spotlight and absorbing it like a fly, helpless in trying to fly away from a glue-coated web. Even her lips and cheeks are rouged a sickening red that threatens blood; that screams blood. He made her. She is his.

He flips the cane and it twirls high into the air, a faint hiss audible. A final act to his one-act show. But can she dance? Can she sing? That's all they want to know. His grin slithers higher and he answers, "Why, yes. All that times two." And he lowers his hat right over his eyes and motions to the side, "Please, enjoy the show."

It is too pretend for her that she deems it must be pure truth. Her eyes glimmer at the thought of 2 shows a day, 7 days a week. His lips curl into a vicious grin and he pounds his cane onto the floor, leaving crooked marks as his lust grows. The carousel is rusty, broken and hinged. The bumper cars run off their tracks. The roller coaster only does halfway loops. At the Carnival, there is only one thing left to see. A ballerina baby, stars studding her eyes and a lemon-sized drop of light, glitzed with silver and satin. Her body twists and tumbles on the sideways stage and her screams echo from plummeting waves of audience cheers and banter of the greed-filled kind. Someone loved her once; someone thinks from the crowd, she was beautiful once. Her spins become delirious as they threaten to encircle her throat. A numbing kind of pain. And she sees it all through eyes that have known lost lives; that are counting the days until hers, too, will be lost and recaptured, like golden fireflies, in tepid, tallying eyes.

He watches vividly from the fire-side. She slips, falls, landing on her porcelain cheek and creating a crack that veins out like spider web legs to her lips, nose and eyes. He lowers his hat and looks away as the crowd roars in lust and vigor. He closes the door. She wasn't his, anymore. Into the night, he steals away, darkness holding fast to his secrecies. Footsteps fall on crooked bricks, undeterminable from the falling rain. Colours of purple dust the steps and bounce off reflecting light. The Carnival is a distant thought, only reminisced. He leaves her, stained and broken, on the stage floor, to be devoured by hungry tongues and thirsty mouths. A second regret flies away with the crows. She was too young, too spoiled, too envious. She tasted the pomegranate then ate it whole.

He scours the streets of fallen, meretricious girls. His eyes bounce off streetlights and allure his most shadowy side, as he reaches out a hand, gleaming with silver-dusted stars and rings- and says, "Follow me. The show is just about to begin." Leading the way to the star-sick, phantom Carnival, he whispers, slow and soft into her ear, "Step right up. You'll be my final act." The night is tinged with a werewolf's pact. Promises are bogged down with the accent of dripping blood. She tilts her cloudy head and takes his hand, showing off her ballerina-step on sideways, cobbled stones.

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