Dooress

A Story by Degare

Whilst being terrible, it was one of my initial works. Maybe it's adolescence is obvious

Dooress

The insane dress in doors, I ask you, do they not, seaweed chores free them, and so they rave in perfect wood, Cabra, solicited of something we'd into the dashes of your eyes,... Mm hush forth they are never yours, hush forth the scorpion wood tongue shall yapper you free. The handle is like f*****g coke, sabre toothed eyelids, butter and patches of snow, it's sun is hiding behinst the dead lampess, perish in golden hair, smitten, aren't you, the blood rakes a finer heaven, wrouth in lousy wood. There are no such things dear, have you never an eye for the thyroid charcoal tears, there tis the goddess that lie prying on every door.

“You know the story, don't you not, spreeing in all-.”, she scoots

“I just have an intense clouding of nausea when I hear bullshit”

“Where is it”

“In all tongue? By the famine of the waterfall?” My bed turns away… ablaze

Her eyes weigh much shame, where does it come from, spear them both with the rueful rod sinking, where are you babe in this modern world, theatre red, bloomst in tears

The door lusts, it's handle erode in you, and it's the liverhead, it's chocolate gold toiling around our organs, sadistic prick, islets of eyes peeling away, manifold the same and you quail, barren wolves, they cry like you.

“You are paranoid, we are pushing the clinical picture”

“And what must one make of this

You take it all, let it ---- you, furnish you, your eyes are red but you are not crying, and when you do

I see you, your hair warming into the winter and breaking away like our children in a world of oysters and pink seahorses, scenting you in starlust and whiny red roses, frocks of liquid crystal carved in you, nevertheless looming away, and this is the prettiest being, you say

The door puts up forth, water borne out of juiceless steam, it's not there anymore,the darkness purges for it's alate, it's a dead morning miss tush, the plumbing’s all a hurry though, and where is the blind gail, that pities unto men, that dresses in most sunken earfells, miss tush, I am mostly fine, sometimes the breath betrays, hides by the little crop in each heart, my heart, it chases deeper and so it pores, and my heart, she is a little windbreaker isn't she, and are you not ever starved, ever? To build a nightingale into onest flu red, chatter the baby sinews, it tastes finer and finer, till there’s nothing more, haven't you heard the madmen flay, beauty indeed but where, and you feel stereo, mirror cradles push you further, like an anglophone, jute like, you are.

And ofcourse livid jane, I talked to her yesterday, she cuts, and her words twitch, she loves being seen, and the flower boy really? Geoanglical --- hole and sears, lurks …,your ponytail bathes, is she not livid and fallow, her eyes couldn't hurt her more, and you speak like Mr Sade sometimes dear, oh he was a terrible man

© 2025 Degare

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Jansy

I feel like I was hallucinating while reading this. It could be the alcohol.. I'm not sure but I feel like I'm walking in a labyrinth and I'm already drunk so how do I come back from this? lol. This is brilliant. I felt my mind just unraveled. I think I can understand it but it could be , that I've become paranoid haha oh man this was a whole trip reading this. I must say, you have a very brilliant and luminescent mind
"You are paranoid, we are pushing the clinical picture" and I completely agree and I'm okay with that assessment.
Well done
James☆