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A Cock Was Crowing...

A Cock Was Crowing...

For quite a while a stentorian voice was on the air rebounding a weird song. It was reverberating from the debths of an unfathomable darkness. Come-be-with-me was penetrating into the ears of the addressee, but she was unwilling to listen...

The voice went on echoeing in convulsions, feel-me-feel-me-all-over. Nonchalant to the voice’s vigorous friggings, she was walking with the wind in her hair. Little she knew of a male voice so supplicating. Come-be-with-me-come-my-love. The discharge of the agony in the tone was the moonlight serenade accompanied by the caprices of the wind. Babe-come-back, the voice recoiled in adagio grazioso. Stop, you selfish brute! The woman bemoaned with all the sternness of expression.

Sel-fish in the dish
Always the same menu
It makes me sick

She confided her trouble to the sea. A gradually growing hysteria was suffocating her being. The now over-powering, inquisitive voice of male dominance was demanding surrender. A salty wind was licking her lips. She was suffering from an unquenchable thirst. She wetted her parched lips; the dainty cracks were giving her pain. The stiffening effect of the sea was on her flesh. A chilly gale from the Mount of Venus frothed the sea. The woman was deluged with a sudden gust of wind. It went inside her through the rosy opening of her bosom. Her dignity of carriage cracked. A harsh blow split her jacket, succoured the woman in distress.

The wind was whistling a hard rock rhythm, was pinching her skin, wandering over her moss-like curls. The voice was inviting her to a mesmerizing mock dance. It was trying to capture her whole existence. I-want-all-of-you-body-and-soul...

She had always been happy with her disintegrity, with her solo dancing adjusted to her own whims, quick or slow steps according to her seismic desires. Her unruly movements always denied the dictates of the established authority. She took it as an assault to her freedom. In the skyscrapers erected on the Earth, she had always sensed the same nauseating phallic representation of power against the womb. As unprotected as she was, the female was the elusively idealised object. The male voice now husky with gamahuche, was raping her womanhood. She was a prey of rules, a puppet dancer reigned by the male...

No-woman-without-a man-no-man-without-a woman...The splitting voice was singing incessantly; the covetous wind was cooing, bobbing, doodling her relentlessly. Her soul robbed by the vastness of nothingness, she walked away with her frustrated gait on the desert. A cock was crowing somewhere, nowhere. She couldn’t hear...

Ayten Suvak

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