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Consumer; consume her.

ordinarywonder:

“Pleasure for pleasure. It eases consequences enough for a fall, but I know you love to take a risk… “

She transmits her frustration across the galaxy, via a hijacked Emergency Broadcast Network frequency. It’s an aggressive, pulsing tone — just loud enough to disrupt the signal flow of your consciousness, and block the channel of your conscience. 

Her invitation is a neon sign, at the end of a seedy alley; the rabbit hole of the underworld. It advertises, “Live Show” in angry scarlet letters… like a bit of red staining your collar. Is it a lonely kiss of blood, the remnants of a recent victim — or a blotch of lipstick, left behind by a vindictive mistress? 

It’s not entirely clear what she’s soliciting.

Is she selling flesh? Her sex leaks concentrated pheromones and pirated data. It smells like survival instinct. It feels like an infinite feed of illicit information; perverted wisdom — a vengeful stream of carnal knowledge that you can’t unlearn, and it tastes like resentment.

Is she displaying violence? Her fury hemorrhages distilled adrenaline and dystopian regimes. It sounds like senseless brutality. It looks like an endless army of militant robots; excessive force — a maniacal line of mechanical efficiency that you can’t ignore, and it stings like regret. 

Is she peddling drugs? Her seductions drip neurotransmitters and viral memes. It stimulates all of those tense throbbing connections, and dirty digital desires that you’re too coy, or embarrassed — to fondle in public, or expose in confidence. 

You know that she’d love to see your face, when you’re alone, shooting her into your veins… or sharing her needle-like points with strangers. She wants to know your face; she wants to hear your bad ideas. She panders like a merchant, but craves like a filthy consumer; please consume her. 

Yeah. It’s hard to tell what she’s selling… but her message is clear:

Spit it out.

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