It is a sweet and pleasant thing to be ruled by whores: to take your orders from the lips of dark angels and suck your milk from powdered nipples. To be brought to a struggling climax, whilst the objects of your desire languidly accept gifts from fools and hypocrites; drinking their diseased cocks, thin grey semen painting breasts and buttocks. As stewards and servants fawn and fuss and, behind forbidden curtains, exotic, erotic intelligence plots the policy of this empire of desire.
This empire of desire. This monarchy of ecstasy, this tyranny of ennui, which demands nothing of its citizens except obedience, reciprocation and an aesthetic sensibility: sex and drugs as narrative and rhetoric. Smoking hashish in velvet-lined boudoirs; mahjong, masochism and MDMA. Debating in detail the death of irony and the breath of life as parody.
But my love dances to a different drum. My love walks the candlelit corridors of power and runs barefoot through the sunlit meadows. My love swallows their seed, trousers their cash and bathes in forest streams. My love proscribes and is proscribed in turn, but my love knows no bounds: my love is the bound, my love is the leap and my love is the faith.