the damnedest of jesters

A fool’s play, played a thousand times per minutes across the suburb, people indulging their innate need to rub their sensitive fleshes together, to serve little purpose but to relieve their built-up lusts, excitements leaving them bereft of attraction, See Ya, unless in reproduction, for the world needs ever more fools to consume in famine, plague and war, worst of all to transmit diseases, specializing in mucous membranes and blood, we would as well not witness the vulgar escapade except in the details of their cavort lies the very prick of conscience, the terrors and horrors of unworthy loves, the damnedest of jesters, the self important though broken bully, the wrecking ball swinging to destroy everything in his path, even in creation he engenders destruction. And yet she could seem to love him at least for an over-long period spurred at the limits to loyalty, even some measure of fidelity, her eyes rolled back, deliberately, blind to the truth about the man poised to enter her.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in fiction, literature, novels, personal, writing and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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