Dead Languages Of The Super-Hedons

Yeoh marched the beach, smiling amongst the baking beautiful bodies bronzing on white sands.  He had the fliers he and I had drawn on napkins before, encrusted with demented yet strangely satisfying drug doodles.  The imagination ariot with colour and nonsense, recorded in a six by eight flap of paper.  The basic information of Boat Party Hippy Bar Full Moon had been creatively reworked and disguised in a grammar of incoherent virtuosity, promises of satyric joys and bacchanalian excess, weird occult symbols from the dead languages of the super-hedons, sigils of sex magic power wed channelled from long-dead goddesses of lust and the polymorphic princesses of dream.  Batshit crazy gibberish.

            He giggled and smiled, saucer-eyes hidden behind UV mirrors.  Mutely I wander behind, feet cooking on the silica beach, brains slowly cooking in a stew of alcohol and abuse.  Languidly I peruse the assortment of undressed bodies crisping steadily in the sun, cells developing cancer qualities under the UV rays.  They look like dead bodies, washed up on the shore to tan perfectly under the sun. 

A pretty young thing from somewhere caught my eye, and smiled up at me as she oiled up her podlike stomach and angled her breasts towards me.

Do dead bodies tan?  I asked, voice cracking and strangled like a gulls.

I had no idea.  She didnt seem to care either way, turning her back on me to expose her buttocks and dive back into her trashy holiday novel.  For a second I considered relieving myself over her back, recommending a urea based lotion for ultimate sun-safety.

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~ by mightyjahj on January 30, 2009.

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