La Belle Angele, 11th September, Edinburgh. The lights were extinguished like they'd been removed, and the room expelled a solitary, damp sigh. AND SO I WATCH YOU FROM AFAR took their place. By the time the first note was struck, I could feel it. Heat seeping down walls, curling round beams, something wet, nervous, held in restraint. The air thickened, iron and perspiration on the palate, a mouth ready to close over us all.
The guitars crashed, and the beast was born. Both parts of “Mother Belfast” tore the darkness apart, flame crawling low, licking ankles, gnawing calves, licking thighs. The crowd writhed; hands slapping, voices screaming, blind fools, but it had accepted me. Its vacant attention slid into my marrow, its second heart thumping within my breast, battering me into submission with each beat.
With "A Slow Unfolding of Wings", it was flesh, obscene and inescapable. Smoke hips grinding, thighs around me, a mouth of fire against mine. The bass thonged through me, the drums pistoned harder, faster, until I was bent, bound, stripped. Guitars wound upward and the fire moaned, battering against me, whispering destruction as release.
“7 Billion People All Alive at Once” was detonation. It destroyed. It fucked down my throat, through my mouth, claws through lungs, a burning cock driven into my spine. My ribs burst open into bellows. My veins flared like wicks. Each drum-stroke a thrust, each chord a savage climax, deeper, harder, until my groin flared into fire. I wasn't possessed. I was blown out, replaced, remade into a furnace.
And then. It flashed. It streamed through my pores into the throng. Their applause soured to screams, screams to groans, groans to stillness as they themselves were pierced, consumed. Sparks kissed their hair, smoke tongued their lips, fire slammed into their guts. Arms convulsed, legs buckled, pelvises jerked in time with the drums as they themselves were ridden from the inside out. The entire club trembled, the hundreds of bodies convulsing, culminating, blazing at once, all moaning the band's name in worship.
The walls were not strong enough to keep it in. Then came Edinburgh town. Flame swept along streets as though ejaculated sperm, cleansing closes and wynds, lapping stone with tongues of ardour. Tenements groaned as they went up, windows shrieking apart, the town bending into the push of flame. Chimneys bellowed out smoke like lungs, pavements cracking like ribs. All buildings strained, all alleys creaked. The entire capital shuddered in a hell of fury and desire.
I plunged into it, no longer stumbling human but stumbling altar, vessel, conduit. My lungs gagged embers, my groin throbbed sparks, my skin radiated raw. But I was not alone. The whole city had arrived. Every soul branded, every body thrashing, every street burning in consummation.
I didn't fear fire anymore. I no longer respected it. I was it. And it was everything. The city screamed, came, burned, and begged for more.
The guitars crashed, and the beast was born. Both parts of “Mother Belfast” tore the darkness apart, flame crawling low, licking ankles, gnawing calves, licking thighs. The crowd writhed; hands slapping, voices screaming, blind fools, but it had accepted me. Its vacant attention slid into my marrow, its second heart thumping within my breast, battering me into submission with each beat.
With "A Slow Unfolding of Wings", it was flesh, obscene and inescapable. Smoke hips grinding, thighs around me, a mouth of fire against mine. The bass thonged through me, the drums pistoned harder, faster, until I was bent, bound, stripped. Guitars wound upward and the fire moaned, battering against me, whispering destruction as release.
“7 Billion People All Alive at Once” was detonation. It destroyed. It fucked down my throat, through my mouth, claws through lungs, a burning cock driven into my spine. My ribs burst open into bellows. My veins flared like wicks. Each drum-stroke a thrust, each chord a savage climax, deeper, harder, until my groin flared into fire. I wasn't possessed. I was blown out, replaced, remade into a furnace.
And then. It flashed. It streamed through my pores into the throng. Their applause soured to screams, screams to groans, groans to stillness as they themselves were pierced, consumed. Sparks kissed their hair, smoke tongued their lips, fire slammed into their guts. Arms convulsed, legs buckled, pelvises jerked in time with the drums as they themselves were ridden from the inside out. The entire club trembled, the hundreds of bodies convulsing, culminating, blazing at once, all moaning the band's name in worship.
The walls were not strong enough to keep it in. Then came Edinburgh town. Flame swept along streets as though ejaculated sperm, cleansing closes and wynds, lapping stone with tongues of ardour. Tenements groaned as they went up, windows shrieking apart, the town bending into the push of flame. Chimneys bellowed out smoke like lungs, pavements cracking like ribs. All buildings strained, all alleys creaked. The entire capital shuddered in a hell of fury and desire.
I plunged into it, no longer stumbling human but stumbling altar, vessel, conduit. My lungs gagged embers, my groin throbbed sparks, my skin radiated raw. But I was not alone. The whole city had arrived. Every soul branded, every body thrashing, every street burning in consummation.
I didn't fear fire anymore. I no longer respected it. I was it. And it was everything. The city screamed, came, burned, and begged for more.
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