The name of the game: prompt work, unedited (asides from spelling), and in one sitting.
Time on the clock: took 40 minutes, mas o menos.
The words of the game:
’s words were: sex, journalist, lantern. ’s words were: gangrene, celestial, dopamine. ’s words were: godlessness, fervor, halflight. ’s words were: ravine, untrammelled, entombed. ’s words were: wax, shit, hair. ’s were: empyreal, fetishist, benzoin. ’s words were: foreskin, gnomic, euphoria. ’s words were: caldera explodes (I used volcanic explosion), car crash, stripclub. ’s words were: grimoire, pheromone, jubilee. ’s words were: asthenology, agonistics, aretaics.(I believe I used every word in this prompt, though some of them were entirely new to me, so I probably used them wrong.)
Forty feet down to the Almighty’s red hot inferno where there is weeping and gnashing of gangrenous teeth, but I stand on the edge of a strip club roof spooning the neon sign in all its perky godlessness. I’m straddling the ski slope hair of a euphoric female, knees gripped tight as clamps on the back of her two dimensional head like a tick that sucks neon not blood, hugging this great glowing goddess flattened out by the car crash of Vegas, hoisted up to empyreal heights by the volcanic explosion of vice. The neon sings of sex, hums dopamine into my bones, and I grip it with worshipful fervor, the lantern glow of foreskin-pink entombed betwixt the ravine of my thighs, casting me out as a celestial shadow over sin city, bas relief, halflight portrait by full moon. My skin is burning, wax liquifying, melding into the angelic form as it blinks betwixt three seductive poses, all of which burn a jubilee through my veins, translating secret knowledge of the cosmos into my soul, this grimoire girl of hot pink and heat. I will never let go of her, my Beatrice, for I am a neon fetishist. My benzoin soaked eyes swish slowly through their wet sockets, liquid stars leaving trails everywhere I look, my eyes drying from the hellfire tickling my toes. But I will not fall, I will calcify here, solder myself to her pheromone form, solidify, a barnacle of shit on the back of gods head, an imitation Athena, and they will study me as a rare case, a petrified person, burnt into the annals of asthenology. And still, with leather skin fused to these holy tubes of ambrosia, I will persevere, a prize fighter fending off all adversaries bent on separating me and my Beatrice, a champion, an artist, a disciple. I will cling unto thee, my beloved, you who glows with untrammeled grace in this city of sin, and you will pull me evermore into you, until I too burn with aretaic light, a Christ crispy. My message will spread like the feral glowing flames of neon coursing through my veins even now, they will report on my miracle, my transfiguration. I am become flesh, the destroyer of worlds. Journalists the world over will share my story, spread the neon flame and the image of my dear Beatrice. It is as the sayings of old hath said, my breast burns for thee, lust burns like a fire in my heart, my loins, and as the gnomic aphorisms confirm, that shits hot.
Keith that was great! beautiful beautiful words and images...40 minutes? i cant make a cup of tea in 40 monutes
"foreskin-pink"... <looks down pants and ponders>
I bet that felt hella good. The peice is great but the rush of writing must of been exquisite!