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Club Choripan
Blood Operated-Boy & TPOTO 
28th-May-2006 10:59 pm

Blood-Operated Boy


The clattering of cups, knives, trays, plates and soft laughter filled the rooms,  making a duet with the soft rhythmic music that glided invisible amongst the guests who were chatting contentedly and  dancing animatedly whilst some others just enjoyed the never ending flow of trays filled with delicious snacks, cocktails and whines.

Everything went as it should, this people left the party feeling quite happy, commenting how great it all was and wondering why had the star host never appeared, not even a single time, to welcome his guests.

The fountains danced gracefully, casting their charms upon grey eyes which never failed to be spellbind by their slippery beauty. Slowly everything was becoming to appear as it was before the celebration, everything returned to it’s exact place; the lights of the lower floor were slowly dying away one by one, until even the founts seduced him into their last curve and yawned slightly as they grew smaller, finally disappearing to give the night it’s deserved dignity.

There was a low sound, a dull and ungainly movement, that was reflected in a deep shade of wanna-be-black red  that moved slightly, roundly, in it’s crystal recipient as dully as the master.

    Again, without any possible disposition for energy, a long hot breathe came out followed  by a rapid movement and sudden stillness.

The four posted bed seemed suffocated by the foul that stench in the air and made it’s way through the nostrils of master and dead.

Still the master dreamt, dreamt as he always did, a movie half recalled, half invented and half written... half asleep was the dead... half of the cup was empty... half of the wine was poisoned, half of the master’s breathe oscillated in the clouds of his dreams becoming thicker and sweet, soon caramelised in the sky -solid but light as vapor- and  filled his mouth with the strange sensation of sweetened nothingness covered in chocolate fudge.





The odor was worsened by the sun rays and it’s pompous announcing of time passing.  Maybe this was the reason for the dead to climb out the master’s bed and evaporate itself in breathes of decadence.

Soon the sordid exhalations were replaced by Amadeo’s enchanting trill and the renovation of the twinkling and merry dance of the fountains.

The traces of rotten flesh where camouflaged in the dunes of black silk that where prisoner below the master’s weight, who still dreamt of candy clouds coated with chocolate.

The chocolate of his dreams was hardly visible as it ran down the master’s sheets and into the parquet, making it’s way even across the carpet that covered almost every part of the wooden floor.

The master turned and opened one eye to see his favorite bird chanting  in the window sill, which was strangely opened and let the air pass gaily to play with the curtains who giggled happily and joined the fountains’ dance.


His nostrils were filled with the scent of a mildly decayed orchid that laid in one of the boulle desks that was at the opposite side of the room, it was a bit rancid, but it still conserved  it’s old glamour and achieved to catch all of the master’s senses .

He woke up, fully dressed in black: a black cashmere shirt with high collar, black blazer with black lining slightly tinted with red and black pants and shoes.

His hair was a tad disarranged and some locks where willing to join the morning dance, though not the master: He went to his bathroom and locked the door.


than you dreamt it -
can you even
dare to look
or bear to
think of me:
this loathsome
gargoyle, who
burns in hell, but secretly
yearns for heaven,
secretly . . .
secretly . . .
But, Christine . . .
Fear can
Turn to love - you'll
learn to see, to
find the man
behind the
monster: this . . .
carcass, who
seems a beast, but secretly
dreams of beauty,
secretly . . .
secretly . . .
Oh, Christine . . .

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