Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Shine on, Wasteland

The desert was illuminated by alien lights foreign to the dust and dirt. The whole landscape was transported into a Roswell model, neon pacifiers taking the place of glowworms, bobbing in and out of focus, clenched between lips framed by perspiring skin.
A spotlight on the ground taunted a lost moth. It danced the dance of the seven veils above, its delicate turns and sways relentless for the blazing audience. Over time it began to drop lower and lower: grey fur swallowed up by the overpowering beam.
A girl was hunched nearby over the ground, heaving a shiny liquid. Glitter filament dotted her arms, her legs, the glimpse of skin showing underneath her slowly creeping miniskirt. The gold arcing out of her mouth covered the ground, noiselessly, cascading as softly as the amber locks that evaded her boyfriend's attention. He stood behind her, popping gum, looking over her collapsed body for a future girl to bend to his will. But his current lady was now on the move. Having finished expelling a days worth of designated hedonism, she straightened herself, all the while turning her head from side to side to lock eyes with anyone who might have been captivated by her stirring performance. She transmitted a message with glazed over eyes: My aim is better when I'm alone.