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  • Writer's pictureAkademie ghost

The Rock Climber Part VI (wip)

You seriously considered living on the ground at one point, but it made your throat tingle. You preferred the clips and harnesses, like a safe language of O’s G’s and C’s with the occasional S and a screwed U. You hadn’t always been a cliff eroticist had you, but you couldn’t remember a time when the nuance of down-below had been at all attractive to you, in fact your swollen proboscis had twanged with delight at feeling the action of your first ever Carabiner clip. You think it’s not a vanity project don’t you, you sat on a rock covered in a dense lichen pad, slightly damp. Sickly emerald green through shamrock, chartreuse changing into bisque in places, spots of rust and swells of puce sheen next to the throbbing, iridescent porpoise of the boulder underneath, which harbored the original algae growth. Imagining you have conquered, as the little sticky bits which gather in the nooks of your tepid mouth, puss and string whilst you talk yourself through your own magnificence. You remembered that the clips and mechanisms which now keep you from having to walk the rotten earth had felt like weapons in your pudgy hands and you were filled with a tremendous sense of your own height, coupled with a thick, square, angled feeling, close to what it must feel like to be shaped like a single mattress. As you traversed the section of sandstone from the forearm you slept by, to gain a better vantage point for noose slinging underneath the igneous hook, your hand caressed the immaculate and giant carved eye, 6 foot in height and at least 8 in width, the indentation of the pupil forming a very useful foot hold for resting. You paused to eat 4 Marmite sandwiches, dripping in the central heat of the day, spilling the mucky yeast fluid all over the sandstone, warm and loose. You fist the last crusts of sarnie into your stinging mouth, you always love the crusty bits don’t you. Then you get to it once again, this time wearing rope slinging gloves you got from Aldi, when you made a rare visit to collect the last batch of Irish cream liquor which you allow to congeal in the various pockets of sandstone formed in the highly sculpted surface, preferring a thicker more viscous, sun dried, fluid pleasure, even if it does drip down your chin and gather in your stupid dimple.

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