Bitch in the Dante style (the fable of Lame’s lost love)

[Imgormiel]

Bitch in the Dante style (the fable of Lame’s lost love)​

Lame sat on his pedestal gazing down on a grey sky. There he would see mountains and plateaus that reminded him of too many lost loved women stolen to memory. Kept under their lock and key in his heart and mind. Like the chambers of lost success, his bones and home were broken. The memory still panged in his heart as he breathed aloud, ‘Why did you rape me bitch?’ As he still panged for triumph. Sad, old, motherfucker.

His soul was a friend. His old pal named ‘Ridicule’ that always looked to the sun and sons of lost slaves. Nevertheless, in companionship they found games to play. In particular, the most interesting one was tic-tac-toe save that. The X’s and O’s in the squares would serve as places to dodge his former lover under a sequence of stones where the dreams where to be avoided. Even there she would still find him. Life’s a bitch aint it?

Even if on the rare occasion Lame would win, Ridicule would always berate him by saying, ‘Aha! Bitch grip burdened in cleft. E’s are queer!’ As she would often say, behind his back even though he knew about it but did nothing. What was the point? He loved the truth and his wife very much, the completely, heterosexual shebang bit. She always liked to tease him when he would not play ball with her when she tried to bust his balls over the smallest thing. That sorry loser always did have the better of him.

Often in his loneliness, he imagined that his peers were clapping him when he played his drum to the beat of a resonating pain chime to the ear. Approving of his heart wrapped in a cold chain. Jesus. What the fuck-fucking next?

Lame often used to think alone in contemplation. Reasoning that he could somehow flip fortune’s finger to each side like it was always a coin of hope. Like, it was not over between him and her. Yet he was already lost to fate’s chosen coin. Those shadows belonged to a mind tricked by theft. Where the halls led to a library of Canto’s that screamed, ‘What of love ridden days forsaken?’ They always busted his balls. Especially when they echoed of the silence of a future in a journey, again, lost. Quit whining you dumbass!

So, Lame, left her – eventually, after much arguing and resistance. To be become the keeper of his hill. Well - why the fuck not? When an answer hears not to speak sense and toy only with a past of broken questions. It does not leave particularly much for him to do. Save, but keep thinking of an old ghost from a distant time once loved. Son of a bitch – even I feel sorry for this fucker myself!

Anyway, when the weather finally broke their game and they had to go inside. Nighttime was about to fall. So, Lame sat by his fire and started to think. After much time spent doing this. Jesus. He finally realised this! The body shall lust to secrets of a wench when forced only by reasons of a dark logic. Waving sticks to mountains and a moonlit ocean for a name of a new love would solve nothing. He needed to let go to find love. Well, fucking, finally! So, here we are again. There lies the end and moral of our story. Even the stupidest of fuck heads can learn to realise to let go...