Eleven before midnight
As I sat on the throne in front of this bed, the first snatch landed on the wide cotton stage built by the alpha lynx / Source number 0.
Savannah fields are made up of three lesbian bodies, and a mat of hordes of crowds inhabits the melatonin lake in my head.
Special dinner tonight.
Hidden predation far from the city’s top clitoris.
The candy is colored the color of The mango of Eros.
Images pile up and shift quietly, as I choose to double down on the melatonin crowd in my brain
After a wave of a triple tornado, two plump breasts jutted upward as if they had fallen from the ceiling
A bra phosphorizes the skin sending sparks from nerve dendrites that light up the room in a subtle blue
And two lesbians devouring each other
The flame rising from the bed covers my sight, the survivor of the blue hashish smoke of Cairo
The lynx below swallows “light and shadow”, as well as the color and texture of the air. It is necessary to obtain any light that transforms the scene into different parts and objects completely different from the reality of the scene of predation on the bed.
The flame is also blue, but in its heart, a mole,??? Gate
Gateway yes
One of the pages of Fire in the Forests of the Alpha Lynx’s body depicts an era when painters ruled the moon
Three lynxes and a wolf on a single theater seat
The owner of the last floor in the building that separates the city from its middle clitoris…
Every night the ancients come to the modern scene
The Triple Theater of the Three Lynxes
And one seat for the wolf.
A surprise slap on the face of one of the lynxes…
Your nail is hurt…..
The alpha Lynx is: It is the arboreal desire from which all inner, secret desires spring and originate
Perhaps it came from ancient engravings of a group of phosphoric pirates’ thoughts, and as they resisted being swallowed by the wall they gathered together and turned into a forest of carnivorous trees
In a painful gesture, the body of the alpha lynx instantly freezes, immobilizing Itself from the inside, turning into a group of solid blue clouds
isn’t it true that the second marble lynx has no possibility of escaping from beneath the body of the first lynx?
Doesn’t this visual construction of feminine entanglement indicate the existence of a forge of the tremor of immortality and annihilation/Isn’t this what one calls petrified pottery? Doesn’t it refer to what we do in the world of metals, stones, and colors?
Say please
Say something
Say please
In my hand is the final cup, which contains an intoxicating mixture of fear, dread, and desire…
All you need is the desire to start a fire because fire comes from within. If you are worried, remember that the largest swell will turn you into a cave where the wild lynx meets the arctic Alpha wolf and Lilith screams for the birth of a new Egypt.
And I am the king laycaon, the vaginal pineapple sucker, who terrifies and confuses all the prey that slaps suddenly, bringing down the auditory wall of all languages. I turn at night, lick my fangs and they spring up beneath me like roots.
The alpha lynx decided to put everyone into a deep sleep because she would wake up early to write her novel (a preliminary rehearsal for death).
She removed one of her tails and shaped it into the shape of a woman with the body of a sphinx. The lower lynx vanished. The Alpha wolf opened his eyes and said: “This creature was called a bottle because it came from the sand.
(According to downtown Cairo Gospel, the sculptor Jago created a new Lilith cloned from the blood of the neck of the Alpha Lynx. After she grew tired of King Lycaon’s demands to submit to her,…
Tonight there is a feast in honor of King Lycaon, the hidden ruler of the ancient building….
Maybe for a final test if he possesses the omniscience of the Alchemy of screams ………..
They’ll give him alpha lynx juice
Did you see King Laycaon when he was a baby?
You saw Laycaon years ago
And years?
When he was grilling a piece of the drunken frog’s meat as a main dish at his banquet in honor of Lilith, who would be crowned in a few years :
The Melatonin king.
Many witnesses didn’t whisper in the ear of the alpha lynx that old story….. She never knew about the night the poisonous frog was disemboweled at the baby Lycaon’s table.
The Egyptian King Lycaon ruled the top of this building for twenty years, and on one of the dark nights in the building he was visited by an infant amphibious goddess who convinced him that she could transform him into a sphinx.
Laycaon didn’t believe her, killed her, and hid her around his long ear, and when he was hungry for twenty years, he would hide under his bed to devour a scrap of her bacon in t mixed with his flesh. When he discovered that it was his first sacrifice, he screamed in anger and burned the entire downtown Cairo.
Laycaon usually gets bored with Habits, even if they are related to his sacrifices.
There in downtown Cairo ripples from the flames of alchemical semen melt the concrete valleys. The asphalt cracks, spewing up plumes of dust that writhe like ghosts in the heat.
From the slit of Cairo’s vagina, claws emerge, followed by bone, muscle, and matted fur of King Lycaon, who rules the crazy downtown.
The noisy chaos in the city stops. Its pleas are replaced by the king’s primal howls.
His eyes, burning embers in the harsh light, locked onto the crowds—crowded masses of steel and flesh,
He wanders hidden in the cacophony of the city. Neon signs flash to forcefully electrify the prostitutes’ pubic hairs, the Exhaust fumes mixing with the primitive musk of their royal clitoris.
Taxis swerve, vendors shudder, and their shouts turn into whine at the raw power radiating from the old/new king.
Lycaon’s hunger awakens For his first brutal curse, he hunts, not for the sheep, but for the pulse of the clitoris under the guise of the lynx’s top dress, its kohl-rimmed eyes wide with horror pleasure, its crimson sash is the only color that contrasts with the phosphorescent color of King Lycaon, ruler of the old city’s brothels.
In this alchemical stare and combustion, time bends. the lynx sees him not as a monster, but as a reflection of her primal desire, a terrifying echo of her desire lurking beneath the veneer of civilization. Lycaon doesn’t see prey, but rather a flash of earthly utopia, a spark of the wilderness that he once embodied.
The dance of the hunters -pirates, where the sidewalks whisper forgotten totemic rituals, and the noise of the city turns into a symphony within Laycaon’s veins. Their skin is stained with the mist radiating with screams of ecstasy, their movements are blurred, the scene fades away and a primitive ballet dance is engraved on her forehead, which is painted with a mosaic of the disappearance of the ancient city.
As dawn paints the sky, Lycaon departs, leaving the lynx trembling and surrounded by a phalanx of lesbian cats, her cursed slaves with their eternal groans. But beneath the surface, there is still a tremor of the memory of the wolfy god’s return to the playful downtown Cairo, reminding of the wildness inherent in sacrificial civilization.
The pavement beneath her bare feet pulsed, a strange mimicry of a heartbeat. No, not mimicry, she realized, it was a heartbeat. The streets of Cairo weren’t concrete and asphalt, but sinew and vein, the buildings gnarled bone rising in defiance of gravity. She touched a wall, expecting stone, and felt the tickle of coarse hair against her palm.
Where was her head? She couldn’t recall, not a moment of loss, no fountain of blood. Just an absence, a hole in her perceptions like a star punched through the night sky. Memory was a tapestry unraveling, the threads floating away like dandelion seeds.
The air thrummed with discordant symphonies – the screeching of owls at midday, clocks with hands spinning backward, the low growl of predatory cats from alleyways that should only hold refuse. Laughter echoed, but when she turned, she saw only the grinning masks of mannequins in shop windows, frozen in impossible contortions.
A scent of smoke curled through the impossible streets, like an invisible serpent. It led her past a bank tower that had never existed in her living memory and onto a bridge where the lights pulsed and shifted, casting her headless shadow in a grotesque dance across the water. Five snails, ponderous and luminous, materialized on her chest, a prophecy she couldn’t interpret.
She encountered a man with no eyes, no mouth. He gestured to her wordlessly, the motion forming shapes in the air that made her nonexistent head ache. Was he a guide or another lost soul in this landscape built of broken logic?
At an intersection, familiar despite its distortions, she stood as figures swirled around her. A child played with a miniature globe instead of a ball, lovers intertwined until she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began, pamphlets about impossible causes fluttered from a makeshift stand.
Her missing head ached with a pressure not born of flesh. Was she the only one untouched by the surrealism, or was there something deeper here? Like a keyhole glimpsed beneath layers of peeling wall paint, she felt an impossible truth just beyond her reach, a truth that might reside in the space her head should be.
Then she saw it – not her head, that still felt more like an idea than a tangible absence – but a door. It shimmered on the horizon, a portal of vibrant colors against the bone-white cityscape. Each step closer brought with it a crescendo of whispers, voices layered and discordant, filling the void where her thoughts should be.
Blood sausage moon drips, howling wolves gnaw at its fleshy craters. The pavement erupts, spewing forth typewriters vomiting gibberish sonnets, metronomes marking the heartbeat of a broken clock. The severed hand of a mannequin tap dances on a newspaper headline: “PRESIDENT ABOLISHES GRAVITY.”
A bicycle fused with a gramophone screams silent arias, wheels spinning in reverse. Buildings melt like Dali clocks, their windows weeping melted cheese tears. Telephone wires tangle into a giant cat’s cradle game played by disembodied whispers. Suitcases burst open, scattering dismembered dolls and single shoes, each whispering cryptic prophecies.
The Nile churns neon pink, swirling with abandoned bowler hats and the discarded logic of mad philosophers. A camel tap dances on the roof of a mosque, its hooves a Morse code message of utter incomprehension. The howls of the wolves merge with the siren of an ambulance made from shattered mirrors.
The air cracks like an eggshell, reality leaking out. A giant lobster claws its way out of the absurdist soup, wielding a manifesto printed on toilet paper. Sphinxes snicker beneath bandages of upside-down postage stamps. Cairo is a fever dream manifesto, a symphony of the irrational, where the only sanity is to embrace the chaos, to dance between the shattered fragments of meaning, howling back at the wolves of the impossible.
Ramses Square quivered not with the usual bustle of Cairene chaos, but with an electric hum of the uncanny. Viktor, fur rippling along his spine under the glare of the neon signs, sniffed the air. It tasted of old paint, stale turpentine, and a curious undercurrent of brine and ancient spices. Not the scent of tourists or kebab vendors, but of something…older.
A shadow unpeeled itself from a crumbling Art Deco archway. Not a shadow of darkness, but of a darkness edged with incandescent gold, feline and unmistakably feminine. Leonor Fini, every inch the resurrected surrealist queen, her eyes like polished obsidian mirrors. The crowd parted around her like water around a ship’s prow, unaware of the spectral wake she left.
“Viktor, darling,” she purred, voice tinged with the faintest of French accents despite centuries buried, “you smell absolutely beastly. It suits you.”
He grinned, a flash of fang. “As do you, Leonor. Ready to turn this city inside out?”
Their occupation wasn’t one of placards or shouting matches. Viktor’s howls, echoing mournfully under the moon, became installations – a mournful sonic tapestry woven into the tapestry of car horns and vendor calls. The peeling walls of forgotten alleys bloomed with his feral murals, figures twisting into wolves, wolves dissolving into moonlit women.
Leonor commandeered an abandoned café. Its dust-laden tables become impromptu salons, populated by mannequins she’d transformed into grotesque yet elegant courtiers, teacups sprouting feathers, and caged canaries singing fragments of forgotten operas. They were a two-person revolution, not of politics, but of perception.
One evening, they unveiled their masterpiece. In the heart of Tahrir Square, amidst the ghosts of protests past, stood a colossal sphinx. Not carved from ancient stone, however, but assembled from scrap metal gears, broken mannequins, and the tangled headphones of a thousand discarded Walkmans. It blinked with a single, oversized television eye, broadcasting a silent collage of Viktor’s howls, Leonor’s unsettling figures, and snippets of street life distorted to nightmarish beauty.
The official art critics were baffled, tourists snapped selfies with the monstrous creation, and vendors sold postcards of its impossible form. Viktor and Leonor, spectral and grinning, dissolved into the crowds. Cairo was subtly altered. Windows became less rectangular, teacups slightly more likely to sprout wings, and under a full moon, passersby swore they heard a wolf howling in the tangled knot of the city’s heartbeat – a call to the strange, untamed beauty lurking just beneath the surface of the everyday.
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