LOVE SONGS

by Hertzan Chimera

Now, lying totally fucked in the damp wreckage of her bed, her half-shaven

head on my hairless boy-chest, I can see the tattoos all over her body.

Not ink tattoos like the world famous adornments to the backs of Yakuza hard

men, but flesh tattoos; designs raised from the substrata of veins and

follicles. Drawn through epidermic impulse into pictorial realisation.

Tattoos of the mind; a living twenty-four square foot canvas.

Imagery delicate and intricate while at the same time brutal, kaleidoscopic

depictions of her sleeping psyche; the tool at the root of their hewing.

When I touch one of the skin forms (an interesting little icon with long

legs, horns and spiny back) it dissolves. Skis through snow. Turns to an

oily residue. A blurred memory of its former symbolism.

Stephanie stirs in her sleep, alien keystrokes dance across her lips. The

destruction I had just caused instantly repaired by her dreamy design. I

brush a hand through an entire phalanx of dermoforms, down her back and over

her buttocks, drawing a greasy trail through the carnage. Again Stephanie

shudders against sleep's cotton wool embrace. Imagery rebuilt. Icons

reformatted.

 

A game; ha-ha. I shuffle round on the sopping mattress, settling myself into

pole position. A cold rasping sound escapes her throat like over rich choux

pastry. I draw my right hand up the back of her legs, from the skin-tattooed

ball of her right foot; across the wrinkles of her arch; smoothly over the

heel; up the Achilles tendon taught as wire; ever-so-recklessly disfiguring

imagery into a slurry of sleep shudders and rambling back brain feedback. Up

the calf with an open hand. Plunging into the trough at the back of her

knee. Up the inside of the thigh.

 

Stephanie shuddering more and more violently with every tentative inch of

ascension. Up to the calligraphisized gash. Grasping her vagina as the

jolting movements become a cold shiver, wet and clammy as you like.

Massaging memories of vaginal calligraphy up over that wonderfully white

arse. Stephanie sobbing a deep ditch of ecstasy.

I allow myself a nasty little laugh, forcefully now along the corrugation of

ribcage, up the back of her right arm, annihilating dreams she jabbers at

the disturbing intensity of the cerebral turmoil; on up the neck blending

jugular vein into ear over the crest of skull over temple and cheek. Sliming

beyond my most ludicrous expectation. A ritual reorganisation.

She rolls her shoulders onto me. Draws her legs up into a foetal attitude.

Then explodes poker rigid as the skin rebleeds its magnificent tapestry. Dry

ice on her upper lip condenses to marbled beads.

I drag my disgusting hand down her throat, over her prominent clavicles,

wiping dreams to sludge, molesting her tiny nippleless breasts again and

again, just rubbing the flesh to a slaking treacle, down to the barbwire

defending the stigmata that so flamboyantly bisects her thighs. And in.

Finger by finger to a grand total of three. Then crowbarring in a fourth.

Stephanie, her mouth ripped wide open by the horror of her manipulated

slumber.

 

I plunge my tongue into her mouth, tasting the tannin of its curious catfur

coating. The charcoal scent of her tortured sighs as she grinds down on my

entire hand. Choking on the whole. The brailed calligraphy of her vulva

restamping entrance codes on the back of my hand. Over and over, reprinting,

rescanning..

 

I whip out my fist with one sharp tug. Stephanie's body flips into the air.

A creamy exegesis scintillates the already manky mattress.

Again a readjustment of position sees me taking a jockey's pose, perched

upon her steaming thighs. Hands plunged deep into the body gore. Hands

either side of her. Body Wanking. Clawfists now dredging through clavicle

candy and breast fat, rib gristle and belly meat. Thumbs crashing over her

gaping pudenda. Restructuring the Sanskrit on velum into a grossly lacerated

cold custard fantasy.

 

The harder and faster I dig up the dirt, the more intense and intricate its

reinterpretation. A singularly complex cry escapes her. She bucks

underneath, nearly unseating me. Digging my heals in, my percheron bucks on.

Eyes nailed shut. Screwed tight. Intoxicating fumes of aniseed and ozone

lifting off her like a ground fog on a chilling autumn dawn. She arches her

back an unbelievable angle. I press on, driving my hands through the slurry

of her breasts and the seem to dislodge.

 

Stephanie snaps awake. Sees me over her. Sees her displaced breasts.

"Now you know. the cat is well and truly. out of the bag." She gasps.

She reaches across the bed for the telephone, "This you will like."

She taps in a five digit number. "Think of a name. Got one?"

"Man or a woman?" I ask.

"Don't matter."

"Okay.."

She gets a call connected tone and holds the handset to my mouth, "Say it,

now! You only get one chance!"

I choose something classy, "Jane Templeton Rice."

Quickly Stephanie tosses the telephone aside. Tumbling through the air, it

draws a rainbow trail of fibres emancipating the stinking sweat and other

trace elements present in the claustrophobic atmosphere, a biogenetic

ululation. The glowing fibres knot together as the air is whipped up icy

cold and naked, a visibly emaciated redhead woman hits the floor with a

resounding thump. The landed trout glistening wetly as frontal lobe hyper

stimulation waves scamper through her freshly formed femininity. Her eyelids

rip open revealing eyes as clear as copper sulphate crystals. The red

central blemish on her freckled forehead. Burst blood vessel? Tilka?

"Tchick tchick." Stephanie clicks her teeth, as if to a dog. Her cold wet

body still beneath me gives out a final involuntary spasm.

 

"Here, girlie." she calls to the teleported female, congratulating me, "Nice

piece of work. For an apprentice.." she beams maniacally, reaching for the

fairground dentist's toy and making it whirr and whiz as the redhead I had

baptised Jane begins to crawl towards us slowly slipping into character. A

sinister crossbreed of sturm und drang.

"Hold out the pretty hand for me." Stephanie the contralto. The redhead

holds out her left hand.

 

Before I can comprehend what is going on, Stephanie shoves the dentist's

drillbit right under the nail of Jane's index finger. Tugging out a red

fibre from under the nail that stretches to a length of six or seven inches.

The redhead passes out.

"What are you doing?" I exclaim.

"Nerves of steel, these whores." Stephanie slithers from beneath me

extricating the long red fibre from under my Jane's index fingernail. She

wraps the bleeding fibre round her right hand, playing out a few extra

yards, "Nerves of steel."

 

The hand becomes a glistening ball of fibre in the blink of an eye. She

kneels up on the bed in front of me, "This will blow your fucking mind."

She pulls her breasts right off.

Just rips them off with her free appendage and stuffs the nerve-swathed ball

into each gangrenously gaping hole in turn until the hand clears. She raises

her head to the ceiling and lets out a single tone. An operatic A flat

minor. And, wow, if this girl I had picked up in a local bar just a half

hour before didn't just sprout monofilament wings from the holes that used

to house her breasts. If they didn't just unfurl and dry to crisp Perspex

wafers beating to the pulse of her racing heart. If she didn't just flap

those microfine wings and rise gracefully into the air. Back arched. Singing

tone poems and laughing daydreams.

Songs from the heart of gladness.

about the author: Love Songs appeared in Dementia13 here in the UK about ten years ago. Love Songs appeared more recently in my chapbook NEURONE FRY UP published by Eraserhead Press the soon-to-be publisher of the Hertzan Chimera novel SZMONHFU.

My super-erotic bullet sex short story MY SUCKY FUCKY VALENTINE has made it into the OF THE FLESH anthology coming out of Suspect Thoughts Press.

Here is a list of current interviews about the SZMONHFU novel, if you are interested, the first two are movei-themed interviews and the last one is a semi-serious (almost the entire issue) of E-genre Weekly. http://shadowofthemarquis.homestead.com/Chimera.html - Misery http://www.suspectthoughts.com/chimera.htm - Blade Runner http://e-genre.tripod.com/issuethirtyone.htm

I am stunned that you accepted that 'sample' story so readily and so enthusiastically. Rest assured lots more classy filth will wing its way to Blood Moonzine in the near future. Do you have anyone there who might be keen on spreading the good word on SZMONHFU - I think it will be right up your collective alley, as they say... Look out for the stunning new Misery-themed interview at SHADOWS OF THE MARQUIS between Hertzan Chimera and Alex Severin in the coming fortnight.