Admittedly, I have become desensitized by the norm. It’s hard to find rescue when everything seems the same, pummeling you into inescapable normalcy. Opening the doors of my mind to new sonic landscapes has become my only saving grace, and charged by the most vivid of blackened pleasures, I dig through the most soiled parts of my mind to find something substantial, and fresh that burrows under my skin, to stay. When latched onto this “new meat”, I search more for something to couple with it. Something that reveals another aspect of its beauty.
Visuals and sound. A pair sewn from the same sensual fabric.
This evening, I have found pleasure in the music of Rammstein. A new type of erotica that splays my mind open and let’s my carnality feed rampant, crawling out of my gray matter, into my hands. Every nerve flaring, tearing from the inside out like webbing, attaching themselves to other bodies, pulling them into the desire.
My eyes are closed. The light flickers. Sweat and blood drip from the fixtures in the room. The light flickers. Pummeling us, “Der Meister” crushes the silence. The light flickers. Hands and feet move in erratic motion to the rhythm. Dodging flails and kicks, I move across the dance floor. The people are caught in trance, black eyeliner pouring from their eyes, pooling on their lips. The light flickers.
And then a flash.
We’re blinded.
Fingertips run up and down my stomach, lips press to my chest. Teeth break skin, blood runs free. What is pain, but merely another type of orgasm? A climax in suffering. Clothes stripped away from burning bodies, graze my own as they’re thrown through the air. Souls on fire, hands like torches. They tie me to their dance, suck me into the movement, and press their nails into my skin.
Whoever said there can be no joy in darkness, didn’t know their own senses, for in this darkness I am alive, to know my own desires. Here I can tear away inhibition, and enjoy the suffering.
I am pleasure.
I am hate.
This is ecstasy.
”Der Meister”, by Rammstein.
