The Huntress. A short poetic fiction of carnal appetite and loathing.

19 Sep

The only son of a long-forgotten god raised nightmares one dark, damp night, tormented by flash flooding memories of honey-sweet lips, forever lost. Harried by a hell of half-remembered smells, he danced with strangers in a strobe-struck dungeon of disk-jockeyed dirge.

Faces blurred with faces in that subterranean feast of flirtation. Flesh on flesh, sweat beading, blending, binding body to reeking body.

‘Come with me,’ he would say. And they came. Words penetrating beyond the brain, to the hot-blooded animal heart. Once and forever, the act of belonging. He worked his art, on man and woman both, all brought to bear beneath his eyes.

An ancient love lamented. Lachrymose, he sundered from naked bodies their naked souls. Strip the humans further. Bring forth the beast beneath. In their night life, with their alcohol, parties and pills, he preys. Carnal chaos among cattle.

The night dies. And with it, the last verse in a song. Tomorrow, the night’s song-smith will descend again. An artist in flesh and spirit. The orchestrator of orgiastic horrors. A hunter, without his huntress.

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