happy weird Friday
The irresistible attraction of the shimmer of evil was his mantra, wedged between his conscious and unconscious minds, between his essential self and the world around him like a thin latex sheath, a kind of mental prophylaxis, and he could not even be sure if it was a line from Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du mal or just something he raked together from the kelpy detritus of dreams.
He wanted to believe that beauty was sublime, transcendent, never infernal, but there you have it, he thought: Beauty, you walk on corpses, mocking them; Horror is charming as your other gems, And Murder is a trinket dancing there lovingly on your naked belly’s skin.
The soft curve of her belly shadowed his will, a kind of natural energy transference, animal magnetism as Mesmer called it, so that every time his mind travelled down the river valleys of her hips to where they…
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