Post by fudo on Apr 15, 2009 15:40:35 GMT -5
F U D O
insanity is a bitch
T R I L O G Y
age is but a number
M A T R O N
only i can drive you insane
D A R K
what the princess likes to play
A M A L G A M
we weren’t all born beautiful
N O N E
if I had a heart, it would beat for you
Now you see me
make it a good glimpse
Cilium of rouge with flamboyant stygian points covering columns, banner, tassels, lantern, & pin-points of the roses. Light feathering upon the fetlocks, brushing against the inky complexion of the iron. Scars mar the anatomy in varying stages; from the thinnest line to grotesque stigmatic worms. Behind the translucent lens of her sienna gaze, blue is high-lighted in her left disk. Feminine in arching carriage; beheld physique with sufficiency & dexterity. Dulcinea of lofty statue.
The mind is a complex organ
so play it wisely
Animosity. Dutiful. Guttural. Perceptive beyond her youthful turnings. Boisterous. Cynical.
Behind eyes of sienna
i see nothing
Oh the damned. The selected few who at birth are considered…odd…why might you ask? Because these beings hold potential. Potential to being vitality high above peers. Her beloved – oh so naïve – father observed the duchess and acted as he saw. Was it her fault her intellect far advanced the means of her age? How the youth that were meant to run with her were belittled in her presence? No, so she was thrown from the hierarchy of the home she had ever known and given a lesson of tough love. With daddy’s best intentions, he send his angel into the real world with a tearful face and a heart of hope. Who knew his little bundle of joy would become such a atrocity? Meeting her match in the unknown and strange world, the dulcinea learned the hard way. Tainting her pallid infrastructure a sickening claret shade and marring her once innocent hide with the brutal apparition of previous lacerations. Maybe coming here is her last hope; for she doesn’t ask for acceptance, security, or rank. The only thing she ever asks for, is to survive.
many love on condition
i will never love at all
The three-beat staccato of the inamorata’s carriage pressed the youth towards her destination. Although, in irony, she didn’t have one. If making a few miles each day and going to slumber when the moon had risen and the sun had long since left its glow - hoping not to have your carcass brutally mangled and your skin ripped from the bones that supported them, then there was no destination. Survival. Pah! Such a queer word, such a true reality for the duchess. Her anatomy heaved along the jagged topsoil, daggers of iron repeating their hastened pace and mirroring the harmonics shrilly within the fleshy layers of her tynaumpaums. Fudo danced on her own edge of insanity; feeling the frayed edge waver with her mass until one day it would snap and send the meager creature into an unknown abysmal of yet another territory. She always liked that; knowing her own being rested on one movement, one chance, one time to get something right, maybe because it gave her something to live for in this desolate lands she scoured. Shank erected, curvature of the shaft bulging with the sinew that rippled with each precise movement executed. Disk of both beryl and terra-cotta peeking from behind the dread-locked tresses of umber & onyx. Banner of both slate & stygian slashing over gibbous haunches in causality; ridding Fudo of the varmints that hunkered down upon her porous rind. Aromas, both colognes and perfumes pierced the sensitive whiskers of her nasal passages, antennas erected and straining to hear movement in the terrain she had so carelessly intruded upon. What would it be now? Capital punishment? The very image of some kind of chastisement brought a bemused smirk ‘pon the blank façade of the vixen. A flicker behind the translucent lens of her deadpan visines as tempo slackened to the ever rythmatic pattering walk she had familiarized. No soprano notes forced through her tautly strung strings, not proclaiming her arrival nor that another equine was in the perimeter of the sovereign. What they didn’t know, couldn’t hurt them. Right?
insanity is a bitch
T R I L O G Y
age is but a number
M A T R O N
only i can drive you insane
D A R K
what the princess likes to play
A M A L G A M
we weren’t all born beautiful
N O N E
if I had a heart, it would beat for you
Now you see me
make it a good glimpse
Cilium of rouge with flamboyant stygian points covering columns, banner, tassels, lantern, & pin-points of the roses. Light feathering upon the fetlocks, brushing against the inky complexion of the iron. Scars mar the anatomy in varying stages; from the thinnest line to grotesque stigmatic worms. Behind the translucent lens of her sienna gaze, blue is high-lighted in her left disk. Feminine in arching carriage; beheld physique with sufficiency & dexterity. Dulcinea of lofty statue.
The mind is a complex organ
so play it wisely
Animosity. Dutiful. Guttural. Perceptive beyond her youthful turnings. Boisterous. Cynical.
Behind eyes of sienna
i see nothing
Oh the damned. The selected few who at birth are considered…odd…why might you ask? Because these beings hold potential. Potential to being vitality high above peers. Her beloved – oh so naïve – father observed the duchess and acted as he saw. Was it her fault her intellect far advanced the means of her age? How the youth that were meant to run with her were belittled in her presence? No, so she was thrown from the hierarchy of the home she had ever known and given a lesson of tough love. With daddy’s best intentions, he send his angel into the real world with a tearful face and a heart of hope. Who knew his little bundle of joy would become such a atrocity? Meeting her match in the unknown and strange world, the dulcinea learned the hard way. Tainting her pallid infrastructure a sickening claret shade and marring her once innocent hide with the brutal apparition of previous lacerations. Maybe coming here is her last hope; for she doesn’t ask for acceptance, security, or rank. The only thing she ever asks for, is to survive.
many love on condition
i will never love at all
The three-beat staccato of the inamorata’s carriage pressed the youth towards her destination. Although, in irony, she didn’t have one. If making a few miles each day and going to slumber when the moon had risen and the sun had long since left its glow - hoping not to have your carcass brutally mangled and your skin ripped from the bones that supported them, then there was no destination. Survival. Pah! Such a queer word, such a true reality for the duchess. Her anatomy heaved along the jagged topsoil, daggers of iron repeating their hastened pace and mirroring the harmonics shrilly within the fleshy layers of her tynaumpaums. Fudo danced on her own edge of insanity; feeling the frayed edge waver with her mass until one day it would snap and send the meager creature into an unknown abysmal of yet another territory. She always liked that; knowing her own being rested on one movement, one chance, one time to get something right, maybe because it gave her something to live for in this desolate lands she scoured. Shank erected, curvature of the shaft bulging with the sinew that rippled with each precise movement executed. Disk of both beryl and terra-cotta peeking from behind the dread-locked tresses of umber & onyx. Banner of both slate & stygian slashing over gibbous haunches in causality; ridding Fudo of the varmints that hunkered down upon her porous rind. Aromas, both colognes and perfumes pierced the sensitive whiskers of her nasal passages, antennas erected and straining to hear movement in the terrain she had so carelessly intruded upon. What would it be now? Capital punishment? The very image of some kind of chastisement brought a bemused smirk ‘pon the blank façade of the vixen. A flicker behind the translucent lens of her deadpan visines as tempo slackened to the ever rythmatic pattering walk she had familiarized. No soprano notes forced through her tautly strung strings, not proclaiming her arrival nor that another equine was in the perimeter of the sovereign. What they didn’t know, couldn’t hurt them. Right?
