literature

In the gallery of human flesh.

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kissysaltcoatedangel's avatar
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Literature Text

I felt absolutely nothing gazing in Mona Lisa's blank sockets we excuse for eyes, and that twist of lips seem to quiver. 
The Mona Lisa was about to cry, and no one noticed.
No one cared. 

The ever-growing weed of japanese tourists jabbed at my ribs and clawed me back into the ever moving tsunami of sinew. 
Fawning over a whimpering woman, whose licked constantly by static flashes, constantly backed up against a wall. 
Unmemorable. 
Disappointing.
Pitiful. 

We were surveying a corpse of promises, soaked in the blood of those who desired it.
Humanity is lustful for the Mona Lisa, who in turn has turned into a harlot of art. 
Where was that mystery countless of bright-eyed art teachers serenade about? 
That is why I left, left her to be gnawed by the sweat of ownership.
Each and every one of those scribbles of man owned her. 
She is not her own. 
Never will be. 

I escaped into the crisp Parisian air, and flowed through her veins. 
That is where I found the gallery, must have taken a wrong turn before and entered a slaughterhouse. 
Not the priceless Louvre, that was here.
In the piss reeking streets. 
In the aroma of baked bread. 
In the notes of "bonjour"s. 
In the metro station with the sleeping drunk,
the dolled up teenager, and
the pimply philosopher. 

Her arteries are clogged with lockets of infatuated defiance.
In the dribble-y, sloppy, tender kisses between lovers. 
I spit on them, watch my foaming wrath slither down the rust. 
Heartbreak stands next to me, she's tragically beautiful. 
Thick black hair draped around her face and toffee skin.
She wears foggy glasses and a cherry dress with long sleeves
that end at the her wrists and a skirt that curves half-way down her thighs. 
On the tip of her fingertip, she balances a locket. 
Mossy with rust, and she asks me one thing:
"Will you hang it for me?" 

Ligaments braided with hidden passages, that all lead to the Eiffel tower. 
The iron lady incrusted in falling stars with a watchful eye.
A lighthouse for her servitude. 
I stand by the carousel, where kids with cotton-candy dreams live. 
Love comes up to be with a ticket-puncher and asks for my ticket.
"I don't have one," "Check your pocket." 
The ballet gleams in forget-fullness. She's beautiful.
A willowy dress cascades down her body, an ebony forest. 
The tip of her hair is golden honey that drips from chocolate brown.
Cream skin and a questioning gaze. 
"Will you join me for a ride?" 

It's monday. 
I have a hangover.
A pounding.
Ringing.
Tick. 

In the pit of my brain. 
My mouth tastes like stale bread. 
But when I open the window, the morning gives me an olive oil kiss. 
Comments20
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Hydrogenuine's avatar
You have managed to humanize the woman without eyebrows and make her seem more than the unattainable beauty that so many have attributed to her and yet also less than the woman she was destined to be. And then to send us sprawling into the maze that is Paris and introduce us to all the ghosts of romance that follow her blindly - your imagery knows no bounds. Outstanding piece!