Aphrodite and Thanatos sprouted from the concrete concourse of the high rise, low life, urban, projects. Public housing, private prisons, the new slave quarters, home to random, but, persistent and pervasive violence – every day.
Born without preamble or portfolio, trust fund or roadmap to success.
She, thin and blacker than pitch, shiny as melting tar, with eyes like dark moons and lips that invited, teased, promised, and lied.
He, kinky-headed, pale beyond the vale of bones, tall, beyond reason, raging without season, bared gravestone teeth, a smile that threatened eternal respite and happy endings. He lied.
Even as a child, she walked with a shake. Shook up, startled and staggered, incited sperm, wet panties, inspired bullet nipples, long, stone male members, and longing everywhere she walked. She walked well and often.
He, as a boy, haunted the killing grounds sniffing out pending deadly violence for his daily meal. And on dull and listless days he provoked that violence like a dog worrying a bone. He rarely went to bed on an empty stomach.
Ebony points to, and wags her finger at her delinquent son, “Thanatos, time is running, change is flooding your body and soul, you grow up, but not old. Time is standing still, grinding out the liquor of life, to a bitter brew fit for you. Leave. Do not look back. Forget me. Chase time. Drink that acerbic wine.”
Out of the house is not far enough for Ebony, out of the projects is still too close, out of the state on another coast suits her, satisfies, pleases and soothes her.
Dione catches her daughter in the rack, beating down the sack, rocking the bed frame like rolling thunder. “Aphrodite! That man you rocking is mine! That bed is mine! This house is mine!” Dione snatches Aphrodite off Dione’s now cringing mate. He’s begging for forgiveness, blaming the wild child and the wicked wine.
“Daughter, your time is at hand. Pack your bags and rags, point your nose west and let your feet follow until you feel the salt in your nose and the sand between your toes.” Dione shows her ex-man the shortcut out the thirteenth-floor window. Without grief or regret, the bereaved girlfriend who’s also the emancipated mother settles into her solitude like a bird in her nest.
He found the sunshine, barrios, ghettos, Indian reservations, highways, and nursing homes to be fulfilling, but not fattening, delicious but not addictive.
However, and ever, he found the mass murders were things to die for. This was an addictive orgy that could never be denied. He feasted on and on and never knew the meaning of famine. On this new coast, he flourished from borders to borders and beyond.
She spilled her wares and spread her charms in the land of pale, thin, industrial sex. She shamed the pretenders and beguiled the producers and seduced the seducers. Her savage, sexy ways colored the minds and infiltrated the ideas of the image makers.
She was the presence that threatened a worldwide, whitewashed reality. The moguls of moving pictures directed her, misdirected her, led her to the underground. There they chained and bound and gagged her. They visited her in secret and lusted for her in real time all the time.
She plotted and planned a great festival of fuckin, sucking, group and individual sensual excesses such as has not been seen in modern times.
And by word of mouth, electronic dissemination, gang signs, and smoke signals the West Coast was abuzz and inflamed in imagination and desire.
And they did come and cum in an endless flow. She sated their lust with an overflow that snapped spines, ruined minds, halted hearts, rubbed nerves to bloody finality.
And the killing field was as long as Sepulveda and stretched from mountains to ocean side.
He did attend such an irresistible feast and found her, knew her, possessed her and was possessed by her.
They were wed on the spot in the throes of balmy bliss and the furnace of fantastic fucking.
And it came to pass that they did bring forth issue in abundance. A new kind for a new time. The walking dead and the sleep walking living.
They did expand their influence and infamy worldwide and wider and have many wonders to yet provide us.
And, still, they walk a wide circle around their projects spawning grounds and have no fond memories of those days or of their mother’s ways.
And, such is life and death and toil and strife among the old Gods and Goddesses in a new age.
Banner Image: By Steve Collis from Melbourne, Australia (Asamkirche) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons