THE LIGHT SOCIETY
CHAPTER 8: Selling the Arts
Orange wondered back into the house and into the bedroom wear Black was sleeping under the stained glass shining a faint blue light on the brilliant man talking to ghosts in his sleep, under the magnificent glass paintings. "Don't eat what has a brain in the company of fast women, your mother the Mexican teenage girl," he spoke behind closed eyes. An only book remained coated with dust on the bedside table, perhaps the book of Black's most recent dreams.
"Filthy rich and of filthy character," said Orange while pulling down the bed sheets and crawling on top of him. "I swallowed his pulse and now my belly is full," she said as she lett him inside of her.
"My words are fodder, may you swallow them whole," said Black with eyes shut to the blue and emerald hue coming from the glass, his full time orchestra. "Allow me to finish eating the fish fluid," he said, his hands like icicles regrouping birds under the seeming to be perfect climbing tree of limbs. "I have many children," he said.
"Im not sure why your telling me this," said Orange.
"Glorified servants selling the arts," he said.
"Your own full time symphony orchestra," said Orange moaning hypnosis into the air.
"Is it evil to recognize beauty when it breaths life into the past?" asked Black.
"Everything is preparation for new pleasures," said Orange.
"In this world of bliss, someone might not be able to sleep," said Black.
"It is easy to make or be moved by a trio sonata of strings of low temperatures, a radio on the street played elegantly by the spinning ghost man, the black man on the street with a devil at the elbow telescoping the dawn," Orange said her head dipped back toward the light.
"Compose feeling into the woman with the hole connected superbly and then into the mud, riding a homosexual dream of quips and glowers. What a sight you are, the prettiest boy by far," said Black to the woman of orange.
"Wound me with your mouth," she said steeping her tresses in a metropolis of ecstasy, her wires in the wind.
"We together express the self and pay tribute to the glory. We tune in the music of limbs. Our tuning comes from the mysticism of the seven senses when the process of thought, turning on the mind, vibrates the hairs in your sex and gratifies us with a song," said Black.
"On a fountain a woman with big ripe lips sings the unbearable loudness of laughter, the music of groans," said Orange, breathing out slow from her throat at the moment of climax.
May you live to be a thousand and see it many times, the death of a racehorse, of an over worked truck driver," said the now perfumed naked black man. In his mind the nightmare had started, the sky had been washed, he was going off to sleep again.
"I express myself, never just passing time. Shaking the plumber's hand is a fetish of mine." said Orange. "I've starved in the castles of bliss. I am a genius."