The Chalice of Death (Chaos 2)

An exploration of ... lust.

Who would've thought a single sip'd be so ... INTOXICATING!

Fragmented, all right. Thoroughly.

Oh! Free me! Undo the waves of aching, the chains of suffering, latched to your ankle. Push, pull, scratch, claw, bite, moan. I remember now—Why I disciplined myself so cautiously and thoroughly, what happens when you stir Slavic blood!

We're all Karamazovs, all right? Some more than others. We can feel the deepest depths and highest highs all in the same day. We're impulsive, sensual, yet in touch with the divine. Indulging, but preaching chastity. Commit the most disgraceful things, and speak of honor, or worse, do so in its name.

(We also often say we can handle our beverage, but then puke in rainbow fashion.)

Oh, Gruschenka! Give me a pestle and I'll fetch those three thousand roubles. We will travel to America and indulge in ceremonial breeding before and after the sun's ascend. To breed more of the likes of you, made for breeding. Your clipped wings and soul of coal do not pester me!

Too long have I lived in abstinence, too long! Do you not see? All this you roused in me! And where ought I take it now? To the purgatory! But before they send me there, before I atone, for I have sinned, let's indulge. Let's break the chalice and stain the walls with wine, or blood. Mine! My blood! Drink and look at me. Look at me as you drink my Gruschenka.

I kiss you on the lips! Let us melt with the forest floor as our steam rises toward the sky, as your nails dig into my skin, the sacrifice for the ancient ritual. Can you hear me? I will not, under no circumstances, tolerate this, this horrendous abstinence! I refuse to not do it!

Ba-ha-ha-ha! I am going mad, am I not? I am! But do you see the fire in my eyes, the blown veins, the pressure with which my blood traverses? No, these are not war drums. Do you see the clouds? A premonition, a bad, horrible premonition. It's the Karamazov passion you woke, that thunders in my chest! Rain pouring down on you, baby. Are you ready to get soaking wet?

This happens when a siren seduces the wrong sailor. When the goddess of fragmentation gets assimilated. I ask, are you ready for Mitya? Drag, toss, bend, pull, break, bulge, pump. Every corner & every crease with patience and diligence. Slow but steady, vigorous but contained. I bare my teeth. The hounds are off the leash.

I can only warn you, in the best sense, of sleeping with wild cats, especially the broken, night-loving cats, that meow at the moon and hiss at people. Those adorned with beautiful jewels, that purr only when they shit on your kitchen table.

The cats which put on masks and abandon themselves to their instincts, dancing around fire to lustful chants, licking trees and anything phallic shaped, dreaming of non-existence. The kittens whose lenses widen, a black hole, forbearing implosion.

But before implosion, explosion, a firework, electric guitars and drums! And how could I resist? How could I but doff my armor? After a lifetime of correctness, dreading the dams breaking, how could I but break them? The gods grow tired and bleak.

It's bitter talk. Fight the devil, but what if you fall in love with him?

Blame it on the cat, right? Cats do how cats do. I knew what cat I was taking in, and I knew shit was going down. Yet, perfectly wrong, it felt perfectly right. I dream of night cats now, claw marks on my heart. A sickness, or curse, but do not cure or purify me. For I, too, am a creature of the dark.

Do not play with cats unless you're ready to bleed.

I confess. I, Dmitri, am a passionate lover. However, under no circumstances am I a murderer. And now, beloved judge and jury, your honor, bring down your sentence. Crucify me. Send me into exile.