(in the process of being edited - please disregard any and all errors as they will be looked over and revised)

Black Candy

by calligraphy smile


It is all we have

There is nothing else.

We grasp for things in the dark. To wield the purpose of our being.

Creatures of beating blood and racing heart and carnal desire. We yearn for warm things to hold onto, for our fingers to touch and make real for our own. But in our unseeing we forget. Forget that love and hope and warmth and that far off stretch of contentment and acceptance on the horizon is but a mirage, just so close that we can feel it but oh it is yet too far. And we slip in the coiled vines that anchor our feet in reality. And we fall. And who is there to dislodge us from the quagmire we have made for ourselves?

They are all dreams of fools. The leftover drugging sensations of sleep and martyrdom.

Blind and human – yes, human. This is where the words they and we become hollow and void. All of us – gods of delusion and creatures of the sky alike - we are merely human.

All we have is time to lose and spend and fill with things of cold.

There, beyond the point where sky and space collide, I was a god.


Loki, Odinson


Child of frost and darkness.

Stranger in the golden hall.

So many identities, pulling, ripping, until I could no longer distinguish myself in the marred reflections of truth and falsity. Madness tore through me. Heart pounding eyes clenching tight and shut.

Flush against the floor where I often had fallen in fits of disillusionment I felt alive and still and that wistfulness of illusory peace. Still the echoes raged on. Still they found me. I could never escape them. Golden blood and monstrous ice alike warred in my veins. I could not take the ringing and the voices and the whispers of you are not enough and it became too much for mere flesh and blood and bone to bear. Within me waged a battle of identity. Boiling rage and licking and grinning and terrible flames of sleeplessness crawling through the holes in me. And there would never be an end in sight to latch myself upon – parasite of hope. Hope, I once thought, was all I had. Hollow hope it became.

Under winking stars and gleaming moonlight I would secretly peel off my most prized and ingenious disguise – the mask of sanity. For beneath the cover of darkness I was but a mad dog chasing after ghosts of self in the night. And I would run myself ragged. For I would never find who I am. A wanderer and a vagabond of aloneness in the dark forever searching never finding always sifting through the endlessness of nothing. I would always be Loki – no one's son.


The only one I ever had

He did not love me

He never did

And never would.

After the fall

There is more falling in store for me

A descent so low

That not even the inhabitants of this world may ever find me

In the swollen belly of their imagined hell.

But for now, in and on this earth, the rage of madness quiets some. Sleeping and waking and it is a cycle I must learn and adhere to. For now - there is no one I must torment. There is nothing I must do. I am back where I started – chasing tails and snapping at the heels of purpose.

Still, it is there. The burning of unknowing. A soft murmuring in the back of my mind. I am in a broken peace. The only kind I will ever know and it is a half ravaged solace.

At best, in the mirror, I can find traces of me. For but a moment I trace the hard glass shell of self. And it disappears. Breaks. Fragile under fingers. And my hands fall away, back to their place of soldiering quietly on and on at my black trench coat side.

At worst – are you so certain you wish to know? Only the mad dog survives. He is black and cold and unfeeling in that hard glass shell. Frothing. Black gnashing teeth bared and poised and ready. All I am and everything I wish to be disappears into this hungry monster. Blinded in my red rising violence. Despair. Yes. I am a son of desperate mourning. The womb of tragedy bore me into this world. I am a lost one. A road leading nowhere at all.

This place that I wander is a place of rot. After the closing of day the dusk comes and stirs the restless nocturne. Creatures of the night stalk the darkest of places. I am

Ennui haunts me, a colorless spirit, sleeping beside me in faceless contentment. I often turn to look at him. I ask him questions. And more often – I remember. It is the doubt in me that rises up and takes my tongue and makes it speak these inquiries aloud.

Do you ever think

There was a time

When I ever belonged?

Often, I wander, and it is in the nomadic wasting of sleepless hours that the loneliness plunges too deep into me. I cannot reach the handle of its cold steel blade. And so my wandering leads me down a path I did not wish to take. But I am alone. I am cold. I need warmth and closeness of body and soul.

I find myself in a dusk painted alley – the lamps of the city lit and the Technicolor signs flashing all around me. I become lost. In all of it. It is like being submerged beneath water. Drowning in artificial light. I cannot breathe. And that is when I am pulled back to the surface. The jarring weight of a first breath ripping through my lungs. I look down into a pair of eyes. Their color too deep for the warm familiarity of brown. Black.

What's a nice lookin' fellow like you doin' down here amongst us mere mortals, huh?

The wife too good no more for a fuck?

God, I could eat you up right here and now if I could.

Won't you let me?

I could give you a real good time if you would let me.

The whore looks me over as the silver threads of my voice weave and create a reply. I hardly know what I am saying to her. No – perhaps I do not know at all. But she seems to smile some. One that does not reach into her eyes and pull the spark of life into them. She is a sad pathetic thing. A human living in vain. I feel drawn to her – to all of these walking heeled vices living in this wretched corner of the earth. She takes my hand. White against warm comfort brown.

She has found me

And I take her – I take her for my own.

A hundred for an hour, buddy. I'm givin' you a discount.

You're so beautiful.

It is worth the tight clenching

Of a body a beautiful body opening up

To receive me, my aching mortal flesh stretched over

The painful immortality of worthless being

As if the everything of nothing that I have become

Is worth receiving.

And I have become a slave to her for just a moment

When I bite into her skin to smother the cry and topple over the edge

And now to her warmth and breath and the delicate perfume of my home inside of her.

I have become addicted.

And her – she has unknowingly become a slave to me.

Hey what's your name handsome?

You do got a name, don't you?

I tell her my name is Tom. That is all she must know. She does not push for more answers and in her post coital contentment merely sits up in the gloom and lights up a cigarette. A human vice that somehow I have come to find beautiful.

She hovers over a sea of twisted sweat rimmed sheets rummaged by our love-making to fill herself up with smoke. I watch her – her every cadenced movement. The slow and measured fall of her tumbling black hair down the length of her naked chocolate skin. The push and pull of her painfully thin abdomen and the tide of her breathing and being alive that courses through her. She lives to smoke and give her body to those who do not deserve it. She does not own herself but others do. And we are alike, she and I, this creature of dark beauty who has sold her soul to the darkness of meaninglessness. The closest to kin I have ever felt. And I have felt all of her. I want to feel more.

The sheets pour all around us, but cannot reach into our insides. Liquid white and rancid scratchy wool gray. They pool over her legs and the pulsing warmth of her wide open sex. The smell of her mingles with the burning choking sensation of smoke lining my nostrils and I lie back into the pillows, taking it all in, inhaling humanity's gently unwinding scent.

She flicks the ashes from her cigarette and discards it

And she stretches over me.

Pressing into me.

Goading the lust and making my flesh prickle with longing.

The sweetness of our contrasting skin made beautiful by first dawn light

Cracking her gold bleary eyes into the window.

You're so beautiful she whispers, so close, her lips suspended over mine and I feel her warm fanning breath against me. Her teeth test the suppleness of my flesh, my neck, and bite down and I am nearly undone by the harsh bite of her teeth and the fingers memorizing bare hip flesh. And it's not the first time I can sense the feelers of her humanity trying to pry into me. All night she has tried. All night she has failed. And perhaps she will never find it, the explanation for my inhuman beauty. For she will never make me seem right and good and possible to her small and modest intellect.

God how can something so beautiful be human? Her breasts fall against my skin and the softness of them seems to grip my stomach hard and her dark nipples graze the clenched white skin. Perfumed hair incense and rose water cradles itself drowsily into the hollow points in between my collarbone.

(You know, I whisper into her sweat slicked breasts (they gleam with my wetting kisses), longingly, sweetly, as I tug her gently under my coiled body.)

And I want her again.

(You belong to me now.)


(You will never be free of the taste of me.)

And over

(And you will never be rid of the need you shall have for me – now that you have had me for your own.)

And over again.

Until she falls apart beneath my hands and I cannot reassemble the shattered pieces.

Underneath me, she shudders, all of her, from the marrow of her bones to the glistening wet flesh of her lips and the sultry taste of them settles deep into the roots of my mouth. Eyes closed I can still feel her legs come apart and spread and reach up over my hips and latch around me like hungry searching leeches.

In the light

(Yes, she moans, arching, curving, her body slowly filling up with me.)

Her eyes are not black at all

(You have me.)

Disguised in black

(And I am yours.)

They are deep secret brown.

In the pungent gloom, when the moon opens her eyes for the night and I am restless, I watch her sleep. No longer does she stalk the afterglow of night. No longer does she open herself up for the refuse who fall under the discord of her siren's spell. No longer must she shut herself off from all sensation when heavy breath and soft whimpers and the hardness of hips colliding slithers snake-like inside of her. Her body belongs to me now. I may do with it as I wish and the room comes alive with her cries as I remind her of her place in this world – underneath me.

She does not know I will never let myself be chained to the press of her breasts and the soft yielding inside of her and the mellifluous sound of her aching urgent pressing moaning. That I am not hers as she is mine. That I am a creature separate from this world and everything in it.

That all of her – from the sweet nectar of her soul to the skin that bends and shivers beneath my touch – belongs to me.

But there are times

When the mad dog breaks free

Of her perfumed chains

And I dream of her drowning in her own bubbling scarlet blood

My hands my skin my body soaked in it

And I have been the orchestrator of her death.

But I always come back into myself to find her asleep and naked and dancing with the twisting sheets. She is always naked. As am I. What need do lovers have of clothes? Of closing up the shamelessness of skin bared to the sheets and the air and the sun obscured by drawn shades?

I do not know what it is that draws me to her. She is a pathetic thing. All bone and too thinly stretched skin over them – like arching brown paper. Beauty sunk deep beneath shadow and hunger and sorrow. I may never know. Perhaps it is desperation and loneliness. Perhaps it is some power unknown to me that only the sirens and their sweet seducing call may possess. I hardly know and don't care to – as long as she continues to submit to my reign over her body and her soul.

Sometimes, softer thoughts of her come to me.

When the night is old and I am lost in its inky depths.

And I trace her - her every jutting arching shape that gives way beneath earthy flesh. The domes of her breasts and the sweeping buttresses of bone. Her hips that I hold onto when we make love so that I may keep her here, with me, so that she may not escape my hands. Her smoldering hot belly. Her pleasantly warm neck that I have marked with gently bruising kisses. She is too angular. Too thin and wretched and used up. And yet I find her beautiful.

But she is mine.

My mouth coils with a smile at the thought.

She is mine.

She belongs to me.

In sleep I can hear her.

She sobs into the pillow, into the sheets, into her hair.

At first, I cannot fathom why it is that she soaks our home in the salt of her tears

But then I realize

In waking

When the black mad dog paces near her and she follows his restless movements in my eyes.

The way she looks at me as if I am a devil

It sets fire to my desire to delve deep inside of her

She puts distance between our sweetly contrasting skin

She fears me when the black dog is near

As everyone as feared him before her.

And I have come to find that I do not mind it –

Tom, she turns her head from my lips and they suckle gently on her neck with the help of teeth instead, please – please don't.

As long as she remembers that she belongs to me, no one else, and she is mine.




Soon I have forgotten the other existence

As the shadow of the adored brother

And the false love of a fearing father

And the coldness of a distant mother

In my mind, I call her, my breathing shelter, black candy. For she has no name other than the paper-thin whispers of pleasure creeping into her neck, the sound of our voices dancing with one another when we talk, and I have not missed the sun for as long as she has been away nor the stars that used to light my wandering labyrinthine path. Mostly we lie in the brambles of sweat-sharpened sheets that smell of her and smell of me. Sometimes, the emptiness in our stomachs and the cotton fullness of our heads lures us into a greasy diner. Here is where her laughter pours over my coffee, sweetens it with her presence, and I tell her stories of my long lost life which she regards as myths left to long ago. And her fingers twist in the coils of my disguised hair – the slick blackness of it traded for an untamable halo of flaxen curls. Tom you are so beautiful. She reminds me of this. Tom you are an angel in disguise. She won't let me forget. That I am not human and that I have no place in this world or the one from which I fell so low.

And I don't mind the adoration, her lust and her soul dedicated to all of me, to everything I do and say and desire. I do not mind her remarks – for I welcome them instead.

The world sparkles behind panes of glass streaked with grime and handprints of passersby. We are not a part of that world. And we are content as pariahs. As outsiders.

It is in these small, simple times, when the black dog is too far away for her to see, sleeping in some untouched corner of my brain.

For a little while, if just a little - she does not fear me.

She looks on me with something warming.

Something mild.

That I never saw in Odin

And I never found in Thor

And Frigga would have never dared to give to me at all. Belonging.

Yes – the girl, she belongs to me.



Her hand on my chest.

Her silhouette hugging the darkness of the room.

Do you even know my name?

Does it matter?

Yeah. It matters.

Why should it? What is a name but a fetter to this world?

Do you always gotta speak in riddles?

Must you always speak in question?

Stop it. Stop talking down to me.

I do not wish to anger you. Tell me what you want.

I pull her body into my chest. It yields so easily – like velvet filled with rushing blood. It sighs and I press my nose into her belly.

I want you to know my name. I want you to call it when you make love to me. None of this distant horseshit anymore. I want to know you. I want you to know me.


Why not?

Because it does not matter.

Like I don't matter, isn't that right?

I don't move. I stay. Her belly hardens against my cheek and I stare into the sheets.

But she won't have it.

My stubbornness.

My unwillingness to recognize her as a human being.

And not just as a body to fill up with mine.

Her eyes. The almost black of them. I can't help but remember the sweetness of our contrasting colors.

Tom, don't I matter to you?

I can feel it. The anger in her circling the anger in me.

She shakes me.

Don't, and I catch her wrists and capture them with my palms. She tries to move. I hold her tight.

If all I am is a good fuck then why don't I just go? I can be a nameless whore on the streets and get paid for it too.

Leaving is not an option for you anymore.

You don't own me-

Oh, but dearest one, that is where you are wrong. I do.

And the fear rises up in those almost black eyes again.

I watch her breasts heave with her breathlessness. She has fallen back, arms still flung around her in disarray behind her head, hair tangling in her clenching fingers. Still her chest blows up and dies down. She tries to catch wisps of it – air. Anything she can. I am composed – warm and alive and composed. She lights up and swallows down the burn of a cigarette. Somehow it is calming for her and it builds her back up from the undoing of sex and the rumpling of sheets all around us. Her hands quit their shaking and turn to mindless wringing.

They find my hair

The odd disheveled curls of hair

And she sighs

Finally losing her breathlessness

As she coils her fingers around the wild strands.

Inside the husk of composure, I seethe with combat – it is you who controls her it is you who dictates her emotions she holds no sway over you.

At last, before long, an armistice is reached.

And I have lost.

And she has won.

But she does not know.

And then it begins

The downfall

The hurried descent

Where temptation and lust are exposed as liars

And only the truth remains.

When she comes in, I am sitting at the window, my back to her and my eyes on the dirty brown-haze skyline. I can hear her breathe it is so quiet. The silence preys upon her. And there is the fear again. I feel it seeping from her every wide open pore. The breathlessness returns and she tries to replace it with a shakily lit cigarette. She falls into the bed – the collapse of her heavy body and it is flush against my rumpled sheets. I do not turn to face her. My fists clench around my knees. Everything inside of me is poised against the crumbling wall which keeps at bay an armed and dangerous anger.

She left.

Without my permission.

Without saying so.

And while I was sleeping, vulnerable, she had gone from me.

Where had she gone, I don't know.

Where have you gone?

It don't matter.

Slowly, I rise. My hands release my knees – white knuckled fists unravel to prone hands at my sides. Her fear glows. River of terror flowing out of her in a strong and heavy current. She does not meet my eyes as I tower over her.

Perhaps you are hard of hearing. Where have you gone?

I thought I didn't matter?

Here. A pinnacle. I meet a parting of the ways – where blind anger must make a choice between action and dormancy. It chooses action. It lashes out. I do not make a sound outside of the tossing of the sheets and the sound her body makes as I crush her into the mattress. Her eyes look torn open, bleeding out thick and metallic horror. My body lies over hers – but for once the touching of our forms is separated by clothing and distress. I am rage. She is fear. We are the shells which house two very separate entities. And she knows I will win and I am strong and that she will lose if she does not play carefully our little game.


Abortion clinic.

I pause. What? Abortion clinic? No – it cannot be. It simply cannot -

You were carrying my child?

Yeah. Looks like I was.

And you did not think to tell me?

It doesn't matter.

I wish you would not say that.


It makes me so very angry.

For a moment she is silence. Her throat bobs up and down beneath my careful grip.

Do you know what you have done?

It doesn't –

Ah, ah. What did I say?

She is silent. A wise choice for her to make as I am beginning to quake and bend beneath the heaviness of the anger inside of me.

How could you?

You wouldn't have wanted it anyway, would you?

And what if I had?

So you admit you didn't?

I admit nothing. I am simply asking you a very pertinent question. What would you have done if I had wanted it?

Did you?

She is asking me outright. Even beneath the threat of lightly squeezing hands around her throat she is asking me a question. Her eyes bright, her mouth bowing beneath a weight, a sorrow, and I can see the tears in her eyes.

No – I do not think I did.

The color of almost black is blotted out by brown skin lids.

But it would have been so very bad for you if I had.

You see, this is where the passing of time quickens, loses its heady slowness.

And this is where we learn that it is all we have.

No longer does she reach for me in the night when unpleasant dreams wake her

And her fingers do not thread through my hair

And our laughter and companionable silences over coffee and over rumpled sheets turns odd and rotten and cold.

No longer does she fill me up with the sensation of belonging and home

Only emptiness and hatred and betrayal

So many times have I felt it

The cold blade of treachery sinking to the hilt into my back

And when I fill her up with my body

With sweetness of our contrasting skin gone

Turned sour

She stares up into my eyes



And more than ever I wish her dead

Or gone

So that I may not have the guilt of her blood to feed my monsters with as well.

And so it is a mercy when I wake to find the emptiness beside me. The imprint of her figure hollow with no body to fill it. Her warmth is not there. Only her perfume left behind. And I know she left as soon as I drifted off into sleep. I will not see her again. It is a comfort. Our love making had long since resorted to the mechanical drive of need and sex.

I turn over, onto my belly. The first sharp pang of loneliness returns from hiding and fades as quickly as it comes. It does not harm me, this quick hurt. This uprising of an old ache. I blink against the pillow. The pull of my lashes catching on the fabric is the only sensation I feel. But I am comfortable in numbness. In apathy of mind and heart and flesh.

All I can think of is that damnable child. The one which will never be born. The one which she murdered without a second thought. Without a blinking regret. And I wonder. With a pit of longing too near for comfort.

What would have it been like

To have looked into the eyes of something beautiful

That I have made

And that would love me

Without condition, without question

What would have that felt like I wonder

Would it have been as beautiful as I can only imagine?

Months lie down and die

And in their decay grows the closing of a year.

The old black dog

Mangy with age

Begins to roam again within.

I am restless. The longing to avenge the blackening of my soul returns with renewed vigor and a new and unforeseen strength. The breaking of my heart fuels it. And it is Thor who I have long turned to once again to blame. The loved son that sucked them, his father and his mother and never were they mine, of all the love they might have shared with me as well. And so it was. Never shall I change this stone set past. But the future may be mine for molding. It lies naked in the shrouded promised string of tomorrows and new beginnings for my hands to twist and shape to my will.

Mischief wakes in me again. An old companion that I find I have missed and never knew I have until know as he looks up at me from the empty place that the whore left in her wake. It grins at me in the night and I smile wearily back at him. Age has begun to wear on me, take from me pieces of my youth, but the scheming – it stirs in me the feeling of being young again. We plot together, my old friend and me. We agree, him and me, that Thor must pay for what he has done. Odin's fear of me must not be in vain. And Frigga – oh, dear mother of mine. Why, she must not be left out of our little games. What fun it shall be! A little family reunion.


Thor shall pay


The time I spent in fucking that useless human whore is but a waste now. I cannot gain it back. Too long have I wallowed in half-doubts of love and belonging. They are but a fool's dreams. And I, Loki, am no fool.

I trade in my golden halo and my wretched human name.

For I am Loki

Son of no one

Loved by cruelty and shame

And time is all I have.

copyright: calligraphy smile.

disclaimer - Loki, Odin, Thor and Frigga do not belong to me. The OC (whom, by the way, for some reason I picture looking like Zoe Saldana - ha ha!) does.