Re: Promenade; Elevator
God would not listen, as He was not there. There was nothing to fill, to satiate spiritual ache. Longing was entirely earthly, and lower, the slow-moving tongue of lava over the skin of the earth. Ubiquitarianism placed Christ everywhere, deified desideratum of the scorched, but he was not. He was succor, to odalisque, to men and women, but he was naught. Yes, the matrimonial execution of man and wife, there, at the gold-fringed altar the priest fucked boys upon, after the candles were snuffed, that place of consecration, there they were shared with God—a trinity. The thurible incensed above to the air to demephitise, to rid it of the stench of sex and the acrid acrimony of burning flesh as it separated from bone. But He was not there, and the bridegroom was soot on the bones of knuckles. The bride herself was whole, save for the small loss of lifesblood that painted her movements aboard the ship of spirits that continued even now, never to be staunched.
There was some delight on the powdered white of her face, even so, as Lucifer came forward, as her pets hissed, as she knelt, as she tore at the confines of Satan’s raiment. The bride’s soul was of no loss to her. Behind the candescent color of her eyes there was a spark, the jump of orange that had torn the church to nothingness, and it flickered at the baring of body and breast. The fingers at the hem of canque of the connubial carnifex burned red on the bride’s white little legs when they brushed past.
She was still there, swaying forward, ankles drawing apart and knees cleaving as she set herself against the wall of the lift. She awaited the touch with her breath fluttering its wings in her throat. She placed the roughness of one foot, sticky with blood, over the wet head of the lost match; her toes curled in pleasure.
Her voice was soft with communion and solicitation. “God is nowhere.”