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Dan untangles his teeth from Jepha’s bruised lower lip, letting a guttural sound drool out with a little blood. He pushes Jepha harder with his hips (Jepha’s whole body is warm with someone else’s heat, his face flushed, his asshole loose) and tells Bert, “He’s saving himself for Jesus.”
“I thought you were a divine agent of the Lord?” Bert snickers, already half-out the door, trailing broken glass and coffee crystals in his wake along with his untied sneaker laces. He has on fingerless gloves. It’s a hundred four degrees outside and Bert is wearing woollen gloves. “Dick him in the ass, Dan,” Bert calls over his shoulder, “DO IT FOR SATAN.”
is that even if you remove the personalities and the narratives that human beings rely upon in order to relate to a subject, and to inevitably take sides about it
if you remove cultural influences
if you remove the scientific method in its entirety because it disagrees with your creed
if you refuse to believe
you still can’t fucking step off the roof of your house and fly
because gravity doesn’t give a shit about your well-argued essay
If you don’t believe in souls
What do you sing about?
If you won’t believe in soulmates,
what are you going to sing about?
I will sing you a universe in green and gold
Dripping with last night’s tears, I will sing you.
I will sing you the greatest stories as yet untold
from the galaxies’ births to this year’s end, I will
Sing you the sun as it sucks the sea’s waters from
its endless salt, I will sing you the heat death
of everything, and how no one is, for this, at fault;
I will sing you Newton, Einstein, Euler and Curie,
I will sing you the universe, for that’s
what you are to me.
I will sing you the great dark navel
At the centre of the night, where the first stars
Exploded into life.
I will sing you the rocks whose secrets are unlocked
with radioactive decay; my chorus will be the mayflies,
for whom eternity is a single day; a refrain of tube worms
like lilies, red in the crushing depths, and a melody
of all the beauty
we haven’t discovered
I will sing you gravity, with a lightness unstoppable in my heart.
In the shade-bathed twilight of our little lives,
I will sing you the swannish curve of your neck
And the forests of cilia in your gut,
I will trill the loveliness of eyes, all eyes; be they
Lidlessly open or skin-glued forever shut.
The vastness of constellations I shall sing you
As they fall ever further apart, and when we are
at last expiring, and soon to be dead
I will croak my final chorus
Of the chemicals in our heads
That fermented this abiding love
From the body’s innocuous stuff;
I will sing to you our universe.
That is enough.
The world is populated by everything from humans to Artificial Humans, but speciesism runs rampant. Everything that can go terribly wrong does; and while it always comes back to Brazil, it all seems to be going down in London, which is a seething pot of conflicts and crossed wires, as new lies are told and old ones resurface; as old murders are recalled and new ones committed; as history is rewritten; and as a very ugly but potentially extremely powerful statue is passed from wrong hand to wrong hand.
PASS THE PARCEL CURRENTLY HAS 20% OFF THE LIST PRICE.
I GOT THIS AND READ IT LAST YEAR AND IT’S SO GOOOOOOOOD. BUY IT.
ryplycy yll thy vywyls wyth “y” fyr tryy yqyylyty
Loki takes a moment when aboard to lie on his face and vomit up toxic golden liquid in beautiful, deadly gouts. Each belch and retch could purchase a town upon earth.
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John chose this most tense of moments to saunter over and nudge Ianto in the side with his elbow. “What did I tell you?” he said, clicking the mint against his front teeth before swallowing it whole. “I was right. I’m always ri-“
Ianto turned and punched him square in the face.
“I get the feeling,” Jack said with considerable amusement, apparently addressing Owen, “that’s been quite a long time coming.”
John reeled backwards on his heels, clutching a bloody nose, but didn’t actually fall.
“You should probably not knock him out,” Jack said with another gleeful smile.
Ianto, however, was ignoring him. He followed up the punch by seizing John’s face with both hands and kissing him hard through the veil of blood that had obscured his mouth already.
“That, on the other hand,” Jack said, making a face, “I’m not so sure about.”
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“I used to date her parents in the Seventies. We stayed in touch.” Jack shrugged. “Also I was at the ungrateful little bitch’s Christening, which was an eventful occasion let me tell you …”
“You dated both her parents?”
“At the same time?”
“It was the Seventies.” Jack started up the stairs.
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I hate this song,” Mickey growled. It was entirely automatic. If someone had played this song while stabbing him in the chest he’d have thought first God I hate this fucking song before he got around to the I appear to be dying part.
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“Hey,” Owen objected, “I’ve been alive thirty seconds and I’m already being heckled by a machine.”
“Welcome to Torchwood,” Jack said, unconsciously mimicking not only Ianto’s delivery but his expression too. “That will be all, Mister Smith. Thank you.”
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“No,” Mickey said. “You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?”
“Yes,” Ianto said again, simply. “Aren’t you?”
“Monsters live in the dark,” John said with acute unconcern. “Horrible things come out of the darkness.” He paused for a long time and raised his eyebrows at Ianto with a half-smirk. “Not going to say it?”
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