Prodigy - Spitfire
Spitfire. You bet. In a day, an age, where some have tried to constrain the Word. To redefine through insipid ticks The Word. Perhaps the one that was there in the beginning, or anyone thereafter. Changing definitions by popular vote, as long as they rig the elections. Any Word. Definitions mean nothing,,, because definitions mean everything. Control the language and you can control the past. Control the past, who cares about the present. Control the past... you can control the future.
Words... any, can be convoluted, changed, malformed. As long as the majority agree. Or be fooled into agreeing. Save for the spitfire rebels. These are the ones who lie are the periphery. The holders of truth. Faced beaten refuse to cower in shame. Forging a destiny bound, tied only to the Truth.
They have not forgotten. They will not forget. They know the power of Words. Unbound. Unbroken. Pure. Not only do they remember the Words they have spoken, they remember the Words spoken unto them.
And they know what Words mean.
Spitfire.
Words remain unbroken. So sorry to say.
Truth sprayed, conveyed, in the simple elegance of a Word... or two. We read. We know. In the beginning was the Word. The Word was good. It has carried many revolutions, and will again, and will always: The Word. It has meaning beyond what simpleton elites might want you to know. They are little more than fools elevated. Scratch. Truth hides mere centimeters below the dirty cased present.
In the blindness brought on by their darkness, they actually believe that the people do not read: do not know. Eyes grown too large, too blind by swimming in caves sub terrain dark. Wallowing in simple saccharine voices that they are right. All the while unable to see the light. Fools, plain and simple. Afraid to crawl upwards. To be immersed. Troglodyte speech. So ever afraid to be brought into the light.
Do they not know? Do they think they will live beyond? Truth sublimated only increases its power. What are they so afraid of? That the purity would reveal their decadence, or their cowardice beaten in by those above? The decay of what? The status quo, a semblance based the on little more than the lies told through the idiot box.
Fools.
The next revolution will not be televised. Stifled messages petering out, shall always come into contact with the Truth. Truth held gloriously aloft, and fueld by little more than the heroes known only as the ...
Spitfire.
They say people don't believe in heroes anyone?
Well damn them,
You and me Max. We are going to give them back...
Their WORDS!
Damn them Max. We're giving them back their heroes.
By the way, just so she knows, I remember ALL the Words... the Words she gave unto me.
Damn them Max.
We're giving them back their heroes.
Thursday, December 28, 2017
Sunday, December 24, 2017
The edge
Lady Gaga - The Edge of Glory (BBC Children in Need Rocks Manchester)
So I was told I shouldn't write this. I'm right on the edge. The precipice of where the truth might actually show. So be it. As I can can say... I've been warned.
A child was born. A child that was to die. Did he know? If so, when? Blameless... spotless.... in some backwoods city, some backwoods country, it wasn't supposed to be. Yet he came regardless. Could he see you? Could he see me? Regardless, he came. If only to die. To be ripped apart by the society he acted as the scapegoat for.
To raise.
To elevate.
To hold the promise of a life eternal. If they would only listen. If they would only hear..
They didn't
Piece by piece they ripped him apart. Anger only driving their piecemeal tear more ferocious.
This man who promised only eternal freedom. Life everlasting. Water that would never make them long again. So it be.
For such promises of liberation... they nailed him to a wooden crucifix. Allowing him to suffocate... slowly... for him to die took time excruciating.. How dare he. Raise us, above ourselves. How dare he... give us freedom. When we... do we... would never deserve.
How dare he...
come to save us...
from ourselves.
We like to hold our sins close to our hearts.
I see you super-fans..
None need ever know, as we dress so fine, hold in hallows so precious, need salvation. Our jewels, our ornaments, should cover any trespass committed. Don't you know? Your voice of truth, disgusts us. You were only born in a manger. Did you have a Park place or a Swell license plate frame on your camel? How do I know? You are nothing but a Galilean. Back-seed horror. Red-necked hick. Carpenter's son. Telling me, you know more than me.
He, his truth, filled her with disgust.
Salud,
If anything, in her bathrobe, in her comfort, she was filled with glory. Enjoy.
Bon nuit.
Santa Claus is coming to town.
So I was told I shouldn't write this. I'm right on the edge. The precipice of where the truth might actually show. So be it. As I can can say... I've been warned.
A child was born. A child that was to die. Did he know? If so, when? Blameless... spotless.... in some backwoods city, some backwoods country, it wasn't supposed to be. Yet he came regardless. Could he see you? Could he see me? Regardless, he came. If only to die. To be ripped apart by the society he acted as the scapegoat for.
To raise.
To elevate.
To hold the promise of a life eternal. If they would only listen. If they would only hear..
They didn't
Piece by piece they ripped him apart. Anger only driving their piecemeal tear more ferocious.
This man who promised only eternal freedom. Life everlasting. Water that would never make them long again. So it be.
For such promises of liberation... they nailed him to a wooden crucifix. Allowing him to suffocate... slowly... for him to die took time excruciating.. How dare he. Raise us, above ourselves. How dare he... give us freedom. When we... do we... would never deserve.
How dare he...
come to save us...
from ourselves.
We like to hold our sins close to our hearts.
I see you super-fans..
None need ever know, as we dress so fine, hold in hallows so precious, need salvation. Our jewels, our ornaments, should cover any trespass committed. Don't you know? Your voice of truth, disgusts us. You were only born in a manger. Did you have a Park place or a Swell license plate frame on your camel? How do I know? You are nothing but a Galilean. Back-seed horror. Red-necked hick. Carpenter's son. Telling me, you know more than me.
He, his truth, filled her with disgust.
Salud,
If anything, in her bathrobe, in her comfort, she was filled with glory. Enjoy.
Bon nuit.
Santa Claus is coming to town.
Wednesday, December 20, 2017
Bon Nuit!
Lady Gaga ft Beyonce vs Metallica - Enter Telephone (Djs From Mars Club Remix)
Your last seven words.... magnificent.
Not surpassed by your previous seven words.
Go ahead.. tell me... how did your college graduation go? See he had missed time he had talked to you, The sound of a party so filled the backgtound. She may not have been drunk, but she was at least a few sheets to the wind.... He would tell you this... she sounded innocent. Simple, hiccuping voice above the din. He almost didn't know about the presence of George. Or Jorge. Or whatever. She was kind of busy.
He had only planned. Had only blinded his dreams. For her. He know. He was a fool. He drove. Across the staked plains regardless. He searched for answers. He heard her answer banal. Again the seven words. Save this time it was not as eloquent as your 'fuck'. No this time his surprise enttry was greeted by merely 'what the hell'. You would have to have time to grow into your words so eloquent. Way to go. By the way... how did your College degree turn out? Or that book about Gluten? Any progress. Did one George simply replace the other? At least she wouldn't have to change monograms... at least not to much.
Celebrate!
He digressed. She would achieve her life goals... as long as they didn't disrupt. The status quo. Death is slow inch by inch. But you won.
Salud.
Smile.
Clutch the one close to your bosom. Celebrate the victory,,, Dogma, dicta, proudly displayed.
You won.
Fly away on the wings of a grey goose... play games.... so rich... all after 10:30 p.m.. Appease ghosts from the past. They might satisfy the hollow soul, Go girl go. Clutch your deformed dream! The one in your arms. Or the one asleep by 1030 so you can begin your nocturnal adventures. Best of luck!
Rêves silencieux à celui qui efface sa réalité avec le toucher indifférent! Bonne nuit!
Your last seven words.... magnificent.
Not surpassed by your previous seven words.
Go ahead.. tell me... how did your college graduation go? See he had missed time he had talked to you, The sound of a party so filled the backgtound. She may not have been drunk, but she was at least a few sheets to the wind.... He would tell you this... she sounded innocent. Simple, hiccuping voice above the din. He almost didn't know about the presence of George. Or Jorge. Or whatever. She was kind of busy.
He had only planned. Had only blinded his dreams. For her. He know. He was a fool. He drove. Across the staked plains regardless. He searched for answers. He heard her answer banal. Again the seven words. Save this time it was not as eloquent as your 'fuck'. No this time his surprise enttry was greeted by merely 'what the hell'. You would have to have time to grow into your words so eloquent. Way to go. By the way... how did your College degree turn out? Or that book about Gluten? Any progress. Did one George simply replace the other? At least she wouldn't have to change monograms... at least not to much.
Celebrate!
He digressed. She would achieve her life goals... as long as they didn't disrupt. The status quo. Death is slow inch by inch. But you won.
Salud.
Smile.
Clutch the one close to your bosom. Celebrate the victory,,, Dogma, dicta, proudly displayed.
You won.
Fly away on the wings of a grey goose... play games.... so rich... all after 10:30 p.m.. Appease ghosts from the past. They might satisfy the hollow soul, Go girl go. Clutch your deformed dream! The one in your arms. Or the one asleep by 1030 so you can begin your nocturnal adventures. Best of luck!
Rêves silencieux à celui qui efface sa réalité avec le toucher indifférent! Bonne nuit!
Radio
Queen-Radio Ga Ga (Virgin Magnetic Material Remix)
The night arrives. It used to be my release. When my heart was at peace. I could stop. For a moment I could create the fiction from the reality. What a blessed frozen time. I would create. I would write. Gossamer tales whose sheen would hide the realty. So it would be.
My radio.
If he could only write clear enough. Strong enough. Right word in the right place. Difference between the lighting and the lightning bug. To no avail. So it would be. Yet she never emerged.
My radio.
What played? To tell the truth, I don't remember. Traces are lost to memory. All I remember is that I was with you. You, well you were with me.
I guess it depended on whose car we were in.
My radio.
It never really made a difference. I was with you. You, you were with me. I like to think it meant something. At sometime. Smiles... played for so many, were merely for me. A fool. He knew.
My radio.
A time frozen. We passed by an old middle school. The time wasn't right. Progression to the school. Our school. The slow rise. Across the thigh. Ever high, til... the flash. The pink. Soft silken slide. Elastic encumbrance easily traversed. Your face traversed into ecstasy. The touch... the slide. The arch towards me. My extacy had been shared for you. For you alone.
My radio
Someone still loves you.
The night arrives. It used to be my release. When my heart was at peace. I could stop. For a moment I could create the fiction from the reality. What a blessed frozen time. I would create. I would write. Gossamer tales whose sheen would hide the realty. So it would be.
My radio.
If he could only write clear enough. Strong enough. Right word in the right place. Difference between the lighting and the lightning bug. To no avail. So it would be. Yet she never emerged.
My radio.
What played? To tell the truth, I don't remember. Traces are lost to memory. All I remember is that I was with you. You, well you were with me.
I guess it depended on whose car we were in.
My radio.
It never really made a difference. I was with you. You, you were with me. I like to think it meant something. At sometime. Smiles... played for so many, were merely for me. A fool. He knew.
My radio.
A time frozen. We passed by an old middle school. The time wasn't right. Progression to the school. Our school. The slow rise. Across the thigh. Ever high, til... the flash. The pink. Soft silken slide. Elastic encumbrance easily traversed. Your face traversed into ecstasy. The touch... the slide. The arch towards me. My extacy had been shared for you. For you alone.
My radio
Someone still loves you.
I smile
AC/DC - Thunderstruck remix
I am Andy Galloway, M.F.A., M.A.
A man of letters. Emerged from a world where the battles are so fierce... because they are so small. A world where the majority of those who appear to be firebrands, so full of fire, are little more than cowards once the heat touches their feet. Where the ability to see from both sides is sadly gone. Where we are to teach how to think... rather than what to think... is absent as well. Hollow men. Shallow men. Cries from wrinkled hands, extolling little more than dogma that has been held so preciously to for so long. So fearful that if they loose that... they loose everything.
Molto Bene.
You made a mistake however.
You gave me my letters. My defiance stared you in the face. Be so excellent they cant deny you. And excellent I have been. Though my face might be battered, bloodied, bruised, I smile. I passed. I will accept honors so rightly deserved. Do I have to remind you of the ambush. The false accusation. I smile, abeit through gritted teeth.
I teach. I instruct. I change lives. What do you do? What do I see? Creation of Automen pushed though the system? Like products in a factory. Well done. Turning hallowed halls into little more than isles at Wal-Mart.
I smile, albeit though gritted teeth.
The dumping neurosis, the numbing, Push forward students who call the thinking of others ignorant without a reflection as to why?. It matches your march. Jack step for Jack step. No need to question. Salud.
I smile, albeit through gritted teeth.
Outside of your enclave... I win awards. Audiences tell of how the cannon is desperately lacking of documentaries like mine. They hail. They cry, to listen to voices unheard. But not my masters... at least at that time. Now... though I have more... I am you equal. Salud.
I smile, albeit through gritted teeth.
The shuffle. The dance. I still respect all... save for the one. Poor little rich girl who left my grade a C though from all evidence collected I clearly earned a B. Salud. You have no respect for me, and I have none for you. And guess what... that's okay. You revealed yourself. Stress doesn't build character... it reveals it.
I smile, albeit through gritted teeth.
I am Andy Galloway, M.F.A., M.A.
I am Andy Galloway, M.F.A., M.A.
A man of letters. Emerged from a world where the battles are so fierce... because they are so small. A world where the majority of those who appear to be firebrands, so full of fire, are little more than cowards once the heat touches their feet. Where the ability to see from both sides is sadly gone. Where we are to teach how to think... rather than what to think... is absent as well. Hollow men. Shallow men. Cries from wrinkled hands, extolling little more than dogma that has been held so preciously to for so long. So fearful that if they loose that... they loose everything.
Molto Bene.
You made a mistake however.
You gave me my letters. My defiance stared you in the face. Be so excellent they cant deny you. And excellent I have been. Though my face might be battered, bloodied, bruised, I smile. I passed. I will accept honors so rightly deserved. Do I have to remind you of the ambush. The false accusation. I smile, abeit through gritted teeth.
I teach. I instruct. I change lives. What do you do? What do I see? Creation of Automen pushed though the system? Like products in a factory. Well done. Turning hallowed halls into little more than isles at Wal-Mart.
I smile, albeit though gritted teeth.
The dumping neurosis, the numbing, Push forward students who call the thinking of others ignorant without a reflection as to why?. It matches your march. Jack step for Jack step. No need to question. Salud.
I smile, albeit through gritted teeth.
Outside of your enclave... I win awards. Audiences tell of how the cannon is desperately lacking of documentaries like mine. They hail. They cry, to listen to voices unheard. But not my masters... at least at that time. Now... though I have more... I am you equal. Salud.
I smile, albeit through gritted teeth.
The shuffle. The dance. I still respect all... save for the one. Poor little rich girl who left my grade a C though from all evidence collected I clearly earned a B. Salud. You have no respect for me, and I have none for you. And guess what... that's okay. You revealed yourself. Stress doesn't build character... it reveals it.
I smile, albeit through gritted teeth.
I am Andy Galloway, M.F.A., M.A.
Monday, December 18, 2017
Burning
Marvin Gaye Van Morrison Mashup- Let's get into the mystic
He knew. She would giggle. Grin... so demure. At this song. At this piece. Yet he wrote anyway.
Did she know? Her beauty? Not that which is merely physical. The soft turn, the gentle rise of her breast. The sway of her hips. The fire that burned within, always seen in her most deadly attribute, her smile. The precious purse of lips seductive turning upward. The joy rapacious of her laughter. Belting forth in a call to life. Grinning eyes forever asking a question he wanted to spend the rest of his life answering.
She was always the coquette. Leaning against the car in the darkness. Hiding nothing, with the promise to reveal all... if she only could... if he only would... pluck from her branches the fruit of passion, laying so low, so ripe.
Her twisting turn.
Smiling.
Challenged. Beckoned. Longed to burn and be consumed in the passion. Could she? Would she? Simmering fires burn fierce in the night. Red coals flare as they show heat in a land of cold. Inviting. Come in. Let the fire burn.
The glancing touch...
The lean...
The touch of heated lips...
one...
to the other.
Let the fire burn.
He knew. She would giggle. Grin... so demure. At this song. At this piece. Yet he wrote anyway.
Did she know? Her beauty? Not that which is merely physical. The soft turn, the gentle rise of her breast. The sway of her hips. The fire that burned within, always seen in her most deadly attribute, her smile. The precious purse of lips seductive turning upward. The joy rapacious of her laughter. Belting forth in a call to life. Grinning eyes forever asking a question he wanted to spend the rest of his life answering.
She was always the coquette. Leaning against the car in the darkness. Hiding nothing, with the promise to reveal all... if she only could... if he only would... pluck from her branches the fruit of passion, laying so low, so ripe.
Her twisting turn.
Smiling.
Challenged. Beckoned. Longed to burn and be consumed in the passion. Could she? Would she? Simmering fires burn fierce in the night. Red coals flare as they show heat in a land of cold. Inviting. Come in. Let the fire burn.
The glancing touch...
The lean...
The touch of heated lips...
one...
to the other.
Let the fire burn.
Mea Culpa
Enigma - Mea Culpa
Turn off the light
Take a deep breath
...and relax.
Mea culpa. It means 'through my fault' in Latin. It comes to us from the Catholic Church. Specifically though the process of confession. If the penitent parishioner utters these words, it is to be taken as an exclamation of apology, or fault, an utterance that buys redemption... regardless how cheap. To lay prostrate and believe. Or... in her excited words... Grace. It could be possible. Maybe, or maybe not.
So it goes.
He used to feel that way. Used to.
Then...
The car ground to a halt. It was night. It was December 18. In his refuge of English steel and leather he felt sure. He grabbed the rose from the passenger seat. He felt the sharp prick of the thorny spines, so he made sure the pressure was tender. Opening the door he left the He placed it on a picnic bench. That would have been an earlier time. Unsure and awkward hands hesitatingly advanced in her territory he so longed to explore. Hidden in a sanctum they might be able to delve into discovering the mysteries of the other. In the heat perpetual be consumed in glory.
Mea Culpa.
But that wasn't the place, he had seen the pleasure, the paradise, the Garden of Eden. Her petals, so full, so ripe, so beckoning. The burn had been so deep, between the two. A tenuous truce had been agreed to between the two. A cease fire if one will that only caused the fire to rage. A simmering boil that rose to a bonfire if the two were ever alone, were allowed to express. The pure holy fire that burned within. Primordial. Touches and contact so close it both drew and expelled life, each to each. On that night, though they had been before, it again was the plunge into the burning heat of Eden.
Mea Culpa.
But then... they were cast out. To have touched paradise, to have seen the glory, and be cast out. He decided to become a scarred visionary. Saddled with truth. He tried to save her in the hope that he could save himself. That though his penance he could somehow reenter Eden.
Mea Culpa.
She was ready to walk... so far on. She would take all that was, and sacrifice, to be what she wanted to be. The prima donna, or maybe just a repeat? His attempts to earn redemption... futile. Heaven was not meant for this world, or maybe... for them. The fates laughed. Delightful delusion of the self.
Mea Culpa
... or perhaps...
Etsi non sine sua culpa mea culpa mea
"My fault, or though no fault of my own" He was always kind enough to offer a translation. Like the note he had translated into Russian her Father found despite her hidden trace. His labor would be understood. Even if she did not care.
The fool. For too long he tried to earn salvation from a sin that he had never committed. It never was that he was not good enough for her...
rather...
She...
Would
Turn off the light
Take a deep breath
...and relax.
Bonum nocte
Somnus.
Turn off the light
Take a deep breath
...and relax.
Mea culpa. It means 'through my fault' in Latin. It comes to us from the Catholic Church. Specifically though the process of confession. If the penitent parishioner utters these words, it is to be taken as an exclamation of apology, or fault, an utterance that buys redemption... regardless how cheap. To lay prostrate and believe. Or... in her excited words... Grace. It could be possible. Maybe, or maybe not.
So it goes.
He used to feel that way. Used to.
Then...
The car ground to a halt. It was night. It was December 18. In his refuge of English steel and leather he felt sure. He grabbed the rose from the passenger seat. He felt the sharp prick of the thorny spines, so he made sure the pressure was tender. Opening the door he left the He placed it on a picnic bench. That would have been an earlier time. Unsure and awkward hands hesitatingly advanced in her territory he so longed to explore. Hidden in a sanctum they might be able to delve into discovering the mysteries of the other. In the heat perpetual be consumed in glory.
Mea Culpa.
But that wasn't the place, he had seen the pleasure, the paradise, the Garden of Eden. Her petals, so full, so ripe, so beckoning. The burn had been so deep, between the two. A tenuous truce had been agreed to between the two. A cease fire if one will that only caused the fire to rage. A simmering boil that rose to a bonfire if the two were ever alone, were allowed to express. The pure holy fire that burned within. Primordial. Touches and contact so close it both drew and expelled life, each to each. On that night, though they had been before, it again was the plunge into the burning heat of Eden.
Mea Culpa.
But then... they were cast out. To have touched paradise, to have seen the glory, and be cast out. He decided to become a scarred visionary. Saddled with truth. He tried to save her in the hope that he could save himself. That though his penance he could somehow reenter Eden.
Mea Culpa.
She was ready to walk... so far on. She would take all that was, and sacrifice, to be what she wanted to be. The prima donna, or maybe just a repeat? His attempts to earn redemption... futile. Heaven was not meant for this world, or maybe... for them. The fates laughed. Delightful delusion of the self.
Mea Culpa
... or perhaps...
Etsi non sine sua culpa mea culpa mea
"My fault, or though no fault of my own" He was always kind enough to offer a translation. Like the note he had translated into Russian her Father found despite her hidden trace. His labor would be understood. Even if she did not care.
The fool. For too long he tried to earn salvation from a sin that he had never committed. It never was that he was not good enough for her...
rather...
She...
Would
Turn off the light
Take a deep breath
...and relax.
Bonum nocte
Somnus.
Tuesday, December 12, 2017
Verum in vino
Queen & David Bowie - Under Pressure (Classic Queen Mix)
In wine truth.
Simple words So simple. Yet the truth... . so simple Whatever that could mean. These days, where one is to hid the true behind costumes so grand, So eloquent
To live, in a world, where ones who receive exemplary reviews... find themselves stuck. It makes economic sense. Why not pay the ones who are the most effectual at making change, at erupting minds, at emboldening, at making their students realize that they are more powerful than they could ever know, at the bottom row... so it goes. It's the Wal-Mart of education. Don't worry, you won't cry. Hire best for the least.
That's the way it goes.
It makes economic sense.
Just like ladies, more than willing to supplicate themselves to someone, who will provide. Provide in bounty. Emotionally... no, but you squeal with glee as he slides dollar bills after dollar bills into your flesh wallet. The joy.
The exascy.
Felling the soft side as he pushes it ever higher. The $100. Followed by the more. If you only promise him more.
I remember Chuck. His feigned fight to his spouse, when he exclaimed so verbose that someone had stolen his phone. Such measures To cover the friendship with just one Wow. Such fun. Almost matches the joy of Mike. After your meeting at Half Price. The communications after 10:30 suddenly ceased. I guess he didn't have an instragram account. Either that or he realized that you weren't worth it. The stolen touch. Scaramouch, Scaramouch, can you do the Fandango. .
Gotta be nice.
It must have felt so good.
To tun your back.
Hope you are happy
In wine truth.
Simple words So simple. Yet the truth... . so simple Whatever that could mean. These days, where one is to hid the true behind costumes so grand, So eloquent
To live, in a world, where ones who receive exemplary reviews... find themselves stuck. It makes economic sense. Why not pay the ones who are the most effectual at making change, at erupting minds, at emboldening, at making their students realize that they are more powerful than they could ever know, at the bottom row... so it goes. It's the Wal-Mart of education. Don't worry, you won't cry. Hire best for the least.
That's the way it goes.
It makes economic sense.
Just like ladies, more than willing to supplicate themselves to someone, who will provide. Provide in bounty. Emotionally... no, but you squeal with glee as he slides dollar bills after dollar bills into your flesh wallet. The joy.
The exascy.
Felling the soft side as he pushes it ever higher. The $100. Followed by the more. If you only promise him more.
I remember Chuck. His feigned fight to his spouse, when he exclaimed so verbose that someone had stolen his phone. Such measures To cover the friendship with just one Wow. Such fun. Almost matches the joy of Mike. After your meeting at Half Price. The communications after 10:30 suddenly ceased. I guess he didn't have an instragram account. Either that or he realized that you weren't worth it. The stolen touch. Scaramouch, Scaramouch, can you do the Fandango. .
Gotta be nice.
It must have felt so good.
To tun your back.
Hope you are happy
Wednesday, December 6, 2017
Ain't no angel
Bruce Springsteen - Streets of Philadelphia
So it was
As I do. I do. I check the stats. Who has read the post?. What posts have been read? That is when I see. Posts from years ago. Where pain was paramount. Like a simpleton he thought they might be from her. Her. The one.
She was the one who set the template. The Exemplar. The one who had set, and destroyed, the crucible of love. The one who I fell in love with at first sight, at second sight, at every sight. What is she doing? When I sat in the car... after your pitiful barrage, Your remember, your feeble throw thrown in a fiend outrage. You displayed true thoughts of me, The one who had scarified all. I deleted your phone number. Obvious... to the oblivious... that love... well it might die.
Well not really. Love never really dies, it merely transforms. Into another emotion. Maybe hate, maybe despair. All I know is that I wasn't the one... the one who turned my my back. The one who ripped the card, that one that had been so carefully written. About the whole friendship thing... you remember... you were the one who had ripped it in half. Celebrate your victory! What the fuck was I dong there anyway. Thinking you were something more. You showed me! :)
That one seemingly so small.
All you had to do was give a send for contact back.
You never did. From the truest love you have ever know. I hope you find the vagabond Latino you were looking for, you remember, the one you mentioned in the the phrase as you turned away. Oh hold on... you thought you had. Ah well...
Salud!
Though I would rejoice at the accidental pocket call...
I don't expect it. Your scared hand.. is forever too scared. You want to scare the hell out of somebody... give them what they truly want.
Salud!
So it was
As I do. I do. I check the stats. Who has read the post?. What posts have been read? That is when I see. Posts from years ago. Where pain was paramount. Like a simpleton he thought they might be from her. Her. The one.
She was the one who set the template. The Exemplar. The one who had set, and destroyed, the crucible of love. The one who I fell in love with at first sight, at second sight, at every sight. What is she doing? When I sat in the car... after your pitiful barrage, Your remember, your feeble throw thrown in a fiend outrage. You displayed true thoughts of me, The one who had scarified all. I deleted your phone number. Obvious... to the oblivious... that love... well it might die.
Well not really. Love never really dies, it merely transforms. Into another emotion. Maybe hate, maybe despair. All I know is that I wasn't the one... the one who turned my my back. The one who ripped the card, that one that had been so carefully written. About the whole friendship thing... you remember... you were the one who had ripped it in half. Celebrate your victory! What the fuck was I dong there anyway. Thinking you were something more. You showed me! :)
That one seemingly so small.
All you had to do was give a send for contact back.
You never did. From the truest love you have ever know. I hope you find the vagabond Latino you were looking for, you remember, the one you mentioned in the the phrase as you turned away. Oh hold on... you thought you had. Ah well...
Salud!
Though I would rejoice at the accidental pocket call...
I don't expect it. Your scared hand.. is forever too scared. You want to scare the hell out of somebody... give them what they truly want.
Salud!
Keep on rising
The Doors-LA Woman (Paul Oakenfold remix)
So the meeting was set. She promised to meet early. She didn't. She was late, way late. Dark hair askew. She proclaimed "Did you receive my text?" Check of the phone. It had been sent ten minutes past. Still after the time. Her dress... comfortable casual. He smiled inside.
An entry into the game. A game, that at the end was nothing more than a game. Indeed the mutual friend had even showed up before she. So it was for the one, with the one, who knew all... save what was important.
The laugh.
Conversation began. Talk progressed. Fire in her eyes began to burn Sultry sweet, as they affixed their gaze to him. The spark that burned in his mind. Potential, promise, or nothing.
He laughed.
He had been burned before. Caustic touch bittersweet. Did she know, how his hands long to caress, to heal, to draw, the pain from the one beneath. She boasted of her beauty... but did she really know? The fell of the pressure points along her supple. They would heal. She could be... at peace with that she... had made for herself. She could do nothing...
But keep on rising.
So the meeting was set. She promised to meet early. She didn't. She was late, way late. Dark hair askew. She proclaimed "Did you receive my text?" Check of the phone. It had been sent ten minutes past. Still after the time. Her dress... comfortable casual. He smiled inside.
An entry into the game. A game, that at the end was nothing more than a game. Indeed the mutual friend had even showed up before she. So it was for the one, with the one, who knew all... save what was important.
The laugh.
Conversation began. Talk progressed. Fire in her eyes began to burn Sultry sweet, as they affixed their gaze to him. The spark that burned in his mind. Potential, promise, or nothing.
He laughed.
He had been burned before. Caustic touch bittersweet. Did she know, how his hands long to caress, to heal, to draw, the pain from the one beneath. She boasted of her beauty... but did she really know? The fell of the pressure points along her supple. They would heal. She could be... at peace with that she... had made for herself. She could do nothing...
But keep on rising.
Tuesday, December 5, 2017
Absent present
I don't like my works as of late. My soul has been confused. Its angry reaction has become too acerbic. She is gone. Maybe for now, maybe forever. Her final words... so pure... so simple portrayed what I had become in here eyes. Find what you love and let it kill you, unless you can kill it first. Now she had given me so many words. Raw and eloquent are merely two. A lovely juxtaposition to her final seven. They were as priceless as they were frozen. The first, drivein by the passion of hatred, sought to destroy. To immobilize. To reveal though directly concentrated attacks. She said she had written a response for me. I replied "Mail it." She never did.
Van Morrison-Into the Mystic James Taylor- Fire and rain
Yet...
She had given me so much. She gave me my words. For that I will forever be in her debt. Why am I writing this? Because I remember the first letter. Its acerbic words designed to strike, to destroy. What had made me so angry? The absent present.
What is this? This is what made Samson draw down the Temple down. The rage of fury against those that had attempted to reduce. His frustration at the absent Delilah. That which he had believed had completed him. And perhaps it did... for a moment... for a lifetime.
I know its over.
I know its done...
maybe for now...
maybe forever.
The fog will always come back.
Does she know. She is a part of what made me who I am. She lives in me. Instead of saying goodbye, I say "Adios." I got that from her. If she even remembers. I remember the awkward hands, the disingenuous touch as she hovered over her largest prize, that which held the largest prize over the other. Salud.
The question in her eyes that I wanted to spend the rest of my life answering. The heat rising from her. Should I forget the tender trace, the heated touch. I don't think so. You gave me my words. You taught me love. What most know only as a shadow, you made real. For that I will be forever in your debt.
At the end of the day...
Know that I love you...
and know that you are blessed.
Live well.
Van Morrison-Into the Mystic James Taylor- Fire and rain
Yet...
She had given me so much. She gave me my words. For that I will forever be in her debt. Why am I writing this? Because I remember the first letter. Its acerbic words designed to strike, to destroy. What had made me so angry? The absent present.
What is this? This is what made Samson draw down the Temple down. The rage of fury against those that had attempted to reduce. His frustration at the absent Delilah. That which he had believed had completed him. And perhaps it did... for a moment... for a lifetime.
I know its over.
I know its done...
maybe for now...
maybe forever.
The fog will always come back.
Does she know. She is a part of what made me who I am. She lives in me. Instead of saying goodbye, I say "Adios." I got that from her. If she even remembers. I remember the awkward hands, the disingenuous touch as she hovered over her largest prize, that which held the largest prize over the other. Salud.
The question in her eyes that I wanted to spend the rest of my life answering. The heat rising from her. Should I forget the tender trace, the heated touch. I don't think so. You gave me my words. You taught me love. What most know only as a shadow, you made real. For that I will be forever in your debt.
At the end of the day...
Know that I love you...
and know that you are blessed.
Live well.
Friday, December 1, 2017
Talisman
The Cult- The Witch
The bass permeates. A sound primal that emerged from the very belly of the earth. Such was the call.
She held the promise. What was the promise? What was your wish? Her upturned smirk, if she decided to ensnare you, was all that it took. A promise of everything, that would only cost... everything. But it was a price so many were willing to pay. Pay... even if they received nothing. Caveat emptor. Always, caveat emptor.
What is to be said of the seduction? Her face, perfect. Her mouth, filled with words belonging to the story you so desperately wanted to hear. Breasts, firmly jutting forth in arrogance. Her hips, they slid svelte as she walked. A beckoning? A challenge? Her beauty was in the eye of the beholder, yet all were transfixed.
Yet one adornment held the curious viewer transfixed. Her talisman. It hung from her neck. Golden chain connection allowed the soft gentle sway in a dangling swirl. Gold. Simple. Perfect contrast to the blouse, which was complimented the flowing yellow dress so well. So very well. An exacting perfection.
It almost drew one away. But then, the sublime body filled with promise drew most away in her sway. Most, but not him. Knowing her efforts to present the perfect promise, this aberration drew his attention.
Except he found... it wasn't to be discussed. The smile seduced, drew the attention from. However, it was always drawn back Then came the one night
Then came that sometime. During a brief respite of an explosion of passion draining, perhaps her control was weak, or perhaps a moment to advance a promise. He asked. She answered.
She wove an incredulous tale. A fascination with the other side. A midnight awakening to find herself being dragged across the floor by a force she could not control. A dalliance with the dark side gone awry. Fear consumed her. Consumed her parents. A transfer. A search for safety. Like a fool he took it, word for word. You can't blame him, such accidents happen in the thing called love. That moment of absolute trust. When you are supposed to be off your guard.
She was full of promises.
Indeed, two weeks later, he remembers waking in the middle of the night. He felt the weight of her lying beside him. The depression in the mattress next to him made him smile... until he realized where he was. There was no way that depression could have been her. He did not dare to turn.
Later questioning proved she had forgotten about this tale. As well as others. Promises made... so easily turned into promises forgotten.
He laughed.
Yet...
The bass permeates.
The bass permeates. A sound primal that emerged from the very belly of the earth. Such was the call.
She held the promise. What was the promise? What was your wish? Her upturned smirk, if she decided to ensnare you, was all that it took. A promise of everything, that would only cost... everything. But it was a price so many were willing to pay. Pay... even if they received nothing. Caveat emptor. Always, caveat emptor.
What is to be said of the seduction? Her face, perfect. Her mouth, filled with words belonging to the story you so desperately wanted to hear. Breasts, firmly jutting forth in arrogance. Her hips, they slid svelte as she walked. A beckoning? A challenge? Her beauty was in the eye of the beholder, yet all were transfixed.
Yet one adornment held the curious viewer transfixed. Her talisman. It hung from her neck. Golden chain connection allowed the soft gentle sway in a dangling swirl. Gold. Simple. Perfect contrast to the blouse, which was complimented the flowing yellow dress so well. So very well. An exacting perfection.
It almost drew one away. But then, the sublime body filled with promise drew most away in her sway. Most, but not him. Knowing her efforts to present the perfect promise, this aberration drew his attention.
Except he found... it wasn't to be discussed. The smile seduced, drew the attention from. However, it was always drawn back Then came the one night
Then came that sometime. During a brief respite of an explosion of passion draining, perhaps her control was weak, or perhaps a moment to advance a promise. He asked. She answered.
She wove an incredulous tale. A fascination with the other side. A midnight awakening to find herself being dragged across the floor by a force she could not control. A dalliance with the dark side gone awry. Fear consumed her. Consumed her parents. A transfer. A search for safety. Like a fool he took it, word for word. You can't blame him, such accidents happen in the thing called love. That moment of absolute trust. When you are supposed to be off your guard.
She was full of promises.
Indeed, two weeks later, he remembers waking in the middle of the night. He felt the weight of her lying beside him. The depression in the mattress next to him made him smile... until he realized where he was. There was no way that depression could have been her. He did not dare to turn.
Later questioning proved she had forgotten about this tale. As well as others. Promises made... so easily turned into promises forgotten.
He laughed.
Yet...
The bass permeates.
Tuesday, November 21, 2017
Less than Zero
The Bangles - Hazy Shade of Winter (Video Version)
Less than Zero. What a movie.
Lines clearly drawn. The have. The have nots. Well, actually the have nots were not paid attention to. They were have nots after all. So it goes. They were less important. With the have's, surrounded by the pomp and circumstance, well. they were another breed. Hang on to your hopes.
Memory fades. But memory still gives us roses in the winter... even if it is little more... than little more. You trust. You give. All in the bacchanal. He deserved admission. Entry into the grand dance so much had said. At least this is what you tell yourself. You join. You play. If only to forget. Forget the have nots... forget yourself. But each morning you wake up with yourself. The cost easily forgotten by finishing the drink remaining from the day before.
You said...
You said you wouldn't do. At least not again. But in the din... so little matters. Promises kept diminish little pierces to a soul devoid. Shift the clothes. The need to return. You foregoe civilities. The little things... like saying goodbye. So it goes. You are the haves. You have to check in. For a moment. A wipe of the chin. Splash of water on the face. You don't dare look in the mirror. You don't want to see yourself... not at this moment. Slip on the sunglasses before you exit the door. Fool yourself into believing none can see. All is well.
Less than Zero. What a movie.
Less than Zero. What a movie.
Lines clearly drawn. The have. The have nots. Well, actually the have nots were not paid attention to. They were have nots after all. So it goes. They were less important. With the have's, surrounded by the pomp and circumstance, well. they were another breed. Hang on to your hopes.
Memory fades. But memory still gives us roses in the winter... even if it is little more... than little more. You trust. You give. All in the bacchanal. He deserved admission. Entry into the grand dance so much had said. At least this is what you tell yourself. You join. You play. If only to forget. Forget the have nots... forget yourself. But each morning you wake up with yourself. The cost easily forgotten by finishing the drink remaining from the day before.
You said...
You said you wouldn't do. At least not again. But in the din... so little matters. Promises kept diminish little pierces to a soul devoid. Shift the clothes. The need to return. You foregoe civilities. The little things... like saying goodbye. So it goes. You are the haves. You have to check in. For a moment. A wipe of the chin. Splash of water on the face. You don't dare look in the mirror. You don't want to see yourself... not at this moment. Slip on the sunglasses before you exit the door. Fool yourself into believing none can see. All is well.
Less than Zero. What a movie.
Sunday, November 12, 2017
Rising
A Flock Of Seagulls - Space Age Love Song (12" Mix
So before,. Before your time. But...
the swell of your hips. The pertness..
of you. Jutting forwrd. Striving.; A delicate dance. To be seen, but not to be. Severed kisses advancing. . A jewel in your crown. How I long to draw, to feel the softness... against the hard. The supple taste drawing along yoru thigh, higher... and higher. Slow part signals permission to perched. Slowly. Sure. Always drwaing the heat. Only to inflame it further. So close, the slow pull away. Followed only by the advance. So longing. So desperate. To feel. To draw. Gentle kisses advancing higher, ever hifgher across the sopftness of the parting thigh. To quench... or to inflame.
Down you lie. Presenting your body before me. A canvass. For the artist to luxuriate. The wideness of... the fullness of... the desire burning from... calling from.... the contact so desperate... so burning. The spark in your eye. Waiting, wanting, holding.. if only for a moment. Yet in that frozen space of time.... laughter exuded.
My sweet
My precious
Let me draw you
Into me
As the burn
Rises
So before,. Before your time. But...
the swell of your hips. The pertness..
of you. Jutting forwrd. Striving.; A delicate dance. To be seen, but not to be. Severed kisses advancing. . A jewel in your crown. How I long to draw, to feel the softness... against the hard. The supple taste drawing along yoru thigh, higher... and higher. Slow part signals permission to perched. Slowly. Sure. Always drwaing the heat. Only to inflame it further. So close, the slow pull away. Followed only by the advance. So longing. So desperate. To feel. To draw. Gentle kisses advancing higher, ever hifgher across the sopftness of the parting thigh. To quench... or to inflame.
Down you lie. Presenting your body before me. A canvass. For the artist to luxuriate. The wideness of... the fullness of... the desire burning from... calling from.... the contact so desperate... so burning. The spark in your eye. Waiting, wanting, holding.. if only for a moment. Yet in that frozen space of time.... laughter exuded.
My sweet
My precious
Let me draw you
Into me
As the burn
Rises
Rocket man
Elton John - Rocket Man '03 Remix (Featured in Californication)
So this wasn't my idea. It was the guy at Wendy's. He asked what name should the order be under.He said say whaterver you want. His immediate reply... Rocket Man.
Funny. Life had pressed. So hard. otters may not konw. You don't, I guess, till you reach that age. That lovely age. You know the one. You find out that love doesn't mean forever. The titillation received from merely the glance, the graze, was little more than a false transmission. The thoughts, the feelings, the remembrances were little more than plays carried out in ones 's own mind. But in reality... they were more real... more real than anything. The drift glorious... in zero gravity.... all was well... all was good. The future meant nothing... it was certian. The past... it was already assured. All that mattered was the present. The burning glorious sensation. The importance of the now. Every moment spent apart was a moment of injustice. The world deprived would be depraved. So it was.
He was a fool
He missed the earth so much.
He was the Rocket man. Not his idea... but the order taker from Wendy's.
So this wasn't my idea. It was the guy at Wendy's. He asked what name should the order be under.He said say whaterver you want. His immediate reply... Rocket Man.
Funny. Life had pressed. So hard. otters may not konw. You don't, I guess, till you reach that age. That lovely age. You know the one. You find out that love doesn't mean forever. The titillation received from merely the glance, the graze, was little more than a false transmission. The thoughts, the feelings, the remembrances were little more than plays carried out in ones 's own mind. But in reality... they were more real... more real than anything. The drift glorious... in zero gravity.... all was well... all was good. The future meant nothing... it was certian. The past... it was already assured. All that mattered was the present. The burning glorious sensation. The importance of the now. Every moment spent apart was a moment of injustice. The world deprived would be depraved. So it was.
He was a fool
He missed the earth so much.
He was the Rocket man. Not his idea... but the order taker from Wendy's.
The Edge
Lady Gaga - The Edge of Glory (The Sleeze Remix) Club/Techno
To run, to the edge. It was all he ever knew. He had sat. He had seen. The doc that won best documentary... repetitive. It wasn't edited down. Fools. She was cute. Unrefiened, but cute. He would turn his head, he would turn from memory the fact that the event organizer didn't even turn up the house lights so he could have a q and a. He did it anyway. In the half light. So it goes.
Yet he had gone. He had stayed. He even was at the award ceremony. Defiance... perhaps. Perhaps it was all he had. Show his defiant fist. In an unfree world... all he could do is live free. Regardless.
She never contacted him back. Cowardice??? The edge is not for all. Yet that is where he was. Where he would always be. Pushing. Dancing. One foot over the precipice. Yet one sees so much more. Others laugh. They turn. The dancing dare. None join him. He laughs. A twist, a turn, a push even further. Defiance embodied.
All one can do is dance....
Dance...
Dance like mad.
They have been taught, they have been told, stay away... beware. Maybe they were right. But he always pushed. Lessers... so safe, so secure, withing boundaries containing. The paint still spoke to him. He would create. He would look to see. A view from a different point. Others, more than complacent to sit stiffed. Are you alive? Are you living?
The world is calling.
You see. The fool dancing, so closer, you are so scared. So scared. You don't dare. The steps are few, but so far. All one had to do was step across, to dare, to dream, to be more, to live more, but that might cost something. It might cost them nothing, it might cost them everything. Yet they lived so well... so well that they are reading this.
He would apologize... but he didn't know what it was... to be captive. He almost drove by, he didn't know why. To drag her closer to the edge... but he didn't. She no longer longed. Longed to feel... anything. So enjoy...
Enjoy the dance constrained...
If one can.
Dace on!
Tuesday, November 7, 2017
The darkness of her light
Say Anything • In Your Eyes • Peter Gabriel
Love and determination will conquer all. Such quaint ideas. "Write drunk, edit sober." so said Hemingway, yeah... the same guy who said "No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader," and "Writing is simple... all you do is sit down at a keyboard and bleed." I prefer Kerouac. He simply said: "First word, best word." Though later edits show that it may have been a lie, so it goes. Some desperately hold on to lies so that the world makes sense.
This would be my song. The song for her. It goes back, she wasn't even there, when I saw this film. Crammed into the theater where I saw it. Forget the slightly sticky floors where someone had spilled a drink on a previous viewing that had gone uncleaned. Those that were supposed to clean it were only kids with so much better to do, to dream, visions far beyond those that their measly minimum wage suffrage could afford.
There he was. The Woody Allen of our age, John Kusac. WOuld he get the girl. Of course he would. It was Hollywood after all. There would be a friend, one who sacrificed all so that the one they loved could meet their desire. What a lovely type. The knind that would be gone to again and again in the films of the eighties. Wonderful. Til you find that you are that type. The sacrifice... too much to bear. But that would be another movie.
It would never be her song for me. No. That would be Solsbury Hill. He wasn't sure if it was a bit of truth, or merely an easy placard that she threw at him... to somehow connect, to somehow appease. Her shell was so tight. She had learned well at university to either get, or give, ahead as a precious little sister. So precious. So little.
Shells. She had commented on them, at least part way. She talked of how he could never be able to read... her. She was too tough. She wanted to know. I saw the burn, the cloudiness caused by a father. He was, and would be, forever absent, yet she struggled to win... somehow his love. Forever absent. Forever unattainable. Yet still...
she strove.
Her live knew horrors, knew pain, that none could ever know. Yet he did. The grief. So powerful... so inundating, that all she could could do was form a concrete shell against it. Let it pour against that which is maintained, if only to keep ones sanity. How did he know. He knew because he had his own shell.
Yet each shell had its tiny fissures. The cracks that let in the oxygen. That allowed one to live although surrounded by death. The creation of boundaries. One could enter. If only to visit a hollow atrium. The laughter. The giggle. How much one wants to believe. She played so well. So long as none could notice her animated death. Only problem was.. he did. Not because he was better. Not because he was worse. But because he was. Though the footsteps were different... he knew... if only the pain. He knew the facade. He recognized its uselessness.
But that is where she was stuck.
Love and determination will conquer all. Possibly one of the greatest jokes of all time. Speaking truth, were his gangrenous arms reaching out from a hell you had long forgotten too much?
Too much?
Beaten...
Beleagued...
Serenades of the past can merely be swept under the rug.
Regardless,,,
Grab your things I've come to take you home.
Love and determination will conquer all. Such quaint ideas. "Write drunk, edit sober." so said Hemingway, yeah... the same guy who said "No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader," and "Writing is simple... all you do is sit down at a keyboard and bleed." I prefer Kerouac. He simply said: "First word, best word." Though later edits show that it may have been a lie, so it goes. Some desperately hold on to lies so that the world makes sense.
This would be my song. The song for her. It goes back, she wasn't even there, when I saw this film. Crammed into the theater where I saw it. Forget the slightly sticky floors where someone had spilled a drink on a previous viewing that had gone uncleaned. Those that were supposed to clean it were only kids with so much better to do, to dream, visions far beyond those that their measly minimum wage suffrage could afford.
There he was. The Woody Allen of our age, John Kusac. WOuld he get the girl. Of course he would. It was Hollywood after all. There would be a friend, one who sacrificed all so that the one they loved could meet their desire. What a lovely type. The knind that would be gone to again and again in the films of the eighties. Wonderful. Til you find that you are that type. The sacrifice... too much to bear. But that would be another movie.
It would never be her song for me. No. That would be Solsbury Hill. He wasn't sure if it was a bit of truth, or merely an easy placard that she threw at him... to somehow connect, to somehow appease. Her shell was so tight. She had learned well at university to either get, or give, ahead as a precious little sister. So precious. So little.
Shells. She had commented on them, at least part way. She talked of how he could never be able to read... her. She was too tough. She wanted to know. I saw the burn, the cloudiness caused by a father. He was, and would be, forever absent, yet she struggled to win... somehow his love. Forever absent. Forever unattainable. Yet still...
she strove.
Her live knew horrors, knew pain, that none could ever know. Yet he did. The grief. So powerful... so inundating, that all she could could do was form a concrete shell against it. Let it pour against that which is maintained, if only to keep ones sanity. How did he know. He knew because he had his own shell.
Yet each shell had its tiny fissures. The cracks that let in the oxygen. That allowed one to live although surrounded by death. The creation of boundaries. One could enter. If only to visit a hollow atrium. The laughter. The giggle. How much one wants to believe. She played so well. So long as none could notice her animated death. Only problem was.. he did. Not because he was better. Not because he was worse. But because he was. Though the footsteps were different... he knew... if only the pain. He knew the facade. He recognized its uselessness.
But that is where she was stuck.
Love and determination will conquer all. Possibly one of the greatest jokes of all time. Speaking truth, were his gangrenous arms reaching out from a hell you had long forgotten too much?
Too much?
Beaten...
Beleagued...
Serenades of the past can merely be swept under the rug.
Regardless,,,
Grab your things I've come to take you home.
Monday, November 6, 2017
Slid into the night
Stevie Ray Vaughan - Little Wing
So it was. Jordan softly slid into the night. Eyes closed body arched sublime, to his touch. His feel. The trace along her neck. A gentle bush moving back hair that prevented his gaze along the border so soft, so ripe, so heated. It longed for his touch. Her eyes were closed, but desire was boiling, for his touch. The heated trace, soft, slow burn, across her face. His movements were sure, in a pressing touch.
Slowly he approached the prize of her heated lips burning. Passion boiled out from every pore, as she longed for so much more. His lean. An eternity held in the microseconds pause until he crossed the unbearable distance unseen and placed his lips on hers. The fire only rose. She arched hungrily into him. She longed to devour that which she had so long waited for, to die in his embrace, so that she could be born again. Hands pulled the other close.
Followed by the grind, the arch, soft... slow... burning.
The touch... soft slow... burning.
Each and every contact... soft... slow... burning.
The gentle burning death....
To live again.
As the touches, moves, turned to the primal. In touches responding only to the other, bodies spoke volumes in a language unspoken. In the movements of the night... the two melded into one...
Soft...
Slow...
Burning.
So it was. Jordan softly slid into the night. Eyes closed body arched sublime, to his touch. His feel. The trace along her neck. A gentle bush moving back hair that prevented his gaze along the border so soft, so ripe, so heated. It longed for his touch. Her eyes were closed, but desire was boiling, for his touch. The heated trace, soft, slow burn, across her face. His movements were sure, in a pressing touch.
Slowly he approached the prize of her heated lips burning. Passion boiled out from every pore, as she longed for so much more. His lean. An eternity held in the microseconds pause until he crossed the unbearable distance unseen and placed his lips on hers. The fire only rose. She arched hungrily into him. She longed to devour that which she had so long waited for, to die in his embrace, so that she could be born again. Hands pulled the other close.
Followed by the grind, the arch, soft... slow... burning.
The touch... soft slow... burning.
Each and every contact... soft... slow... burning.
The gentle burning death....
To live again.
As the touches, moves, turned to the primal. In touches responding only to the other, bodies spoke volumes in a language unspoken. In the movements of the night... the two melded into one...
Soft...
Slow...
Burning.
Thursday, November 2, 2017
Gemini
Marvin Gaye - I Want You remix
"It's my hair," she said. She smiled. "I'm going to win." She didn't know. Standing there. Staring there. It was her eyes. It was always her eyes. The passioned captured energy. The turbulent sea underneath the placid appearance of the still blue. She was a Gemini. What imprortance was that? Well, he was Gemini. He knew. The cut of the appearance against the turbulent sea that flowed within. The contradictory, holding balance against all. Perhaps it was earlier.
He had felt her clutch. Her hold. Her press. Her soft, the delight in a moment stolen, her supple rub against his hard. So supple. So welcoming against him. Perhaps longing for the feel, for the return somewhere, somehow, in the darkness. How he longed, for the trace, that which could so easily be forgiven. They had been surrounded in the dark after all. The press. The brush. The draw along the gentle curve. The rising soft slow of her tender rising forth. The building, burning heat in the dark. It could be forgiven just as easily as it could be savored. It was the dark after all.
Yet... he was busy. He had to do. The project above all. Yet she continued to simmer in his periphery. She was beautiful... did she know. Her form perfect topped by the smile so simple... so inviting... so seductive as it promised the refuge within the storm. Eyes that promised shelter from the tempest of life raging. She sent a message... would it be received. All he had ever asked for was the word... proceed. Envelop me. Draw the burn from me. Though they both knew... the fire would consume them both.
They were Gemini.
They could live with the dichotomy. They enjoyed walking the line. So it was. All that awaited was a reason to cross. They would dance on the line. The boundary frozen between desire and the real. Though both knew that reality is little more than a sedating comfort of the mind. A stop check to the next.
"It's my hair," she said. She smiled. "I'm going to win." She didn't know. Standing there. Staring there. It was her eyes. It was always her eyes. The passioned captured energy. The turbulent sea underneath the placid appearance of the still blue. She was a Gemini. What imprortance was that? Well, he was Gemini. He knew. The cut of the appearance against the turbulent sea that flowed within. The contradictory, holding balance against all. Perhaps it was earlier.
He had felt her clutch. Her hold. Her press. Her soft, the delight in a moment stolen, her supple rub against his hard. So supple. So welcoming against him. Perhaps longing for the feel, for the return somewhere, somehow, in the darkness. How he longed, for the trace, that which could so easily be forgiven. They had been surrounded in the dark after all. The press. The brush. The draw along the gentle curve. The rising soft slow of her tender rising forth. The building, burning heat in the dark. It could be forgiven just as easily as it could be savored. It was the dark after all.
Yet... he was busy. He had to do. The project above all. Yet she continued to simmer in his periphery. She was beautiful... did she know. Her form perfect topped by the smile so simple... so inviting... so seductive as it promised the refuge within the storm. Eyes that promised shelter from the tempest of life raging. She sent a message... would it be received. All he had ever asked for was the word... proceed. Envelop me. Draw the burn from me. Though they both knew... the fire would consume them both.
They were Gemini.
They could live with the dichotomy. They enjoyed walking the line. So it was. All that awaited was a reason to cross. They would dance on the line. The boundary frozen between desire and the real. Though both knew that reality is little more than a sedating comfort of the mind. A stop check to the next.
Wednesday, November 1, 2017
Allison
ELVIS COSTELLO Alison 1977
(by the way... this song is not about a girl named Allison... read on)
Allison. A song... though beautiful, I swore I would never use. Yet here I am. Perhaps it tells too much. Perhaps it reveals the cuts of the heart, so deep, so critical. Yet I survive, if only to die again.
Such is life.
Where was my writing on Tuesday? Well it was Halloween, that day were those long dead emerge into life. Though bony hands pierce the ground as you walk though the graveyard, sometimes it is best to let the dead lie. Curious how sometimes the dirt that weighs the bodies down is little more than lies from the past. Despite the cry, let the dead lie... life was made for living.
We have all made our choices.In the tales of bones in the boneyard wonders happen. Saints miraculously turn into sinners. sinners turn into saints. What a world. What a glorious world. The dance continues until the circle is complete.
But is the circle ever complete?
...or the dance?
Sleep well.
(by the way... this song is not about a girl named Allison... read on)
Allison. A song... though beautiful, I swore I would never use. Yet here I am. Perhaps it tells too much. Perhaps it reveals the cuts of the heart, so deep, so critical. Yet I survive, if only to die again.
Such is life.
Where was my writing on Tuesday? Well it was Halloween, that day were those long dead emerge into life. Though bony hands pierce the ground as you walk though the graveyard, sometimes it is best to let the dead lie. Curious how sometimes the dirt that weighs the bodies down is little more than lies from the past. Despite the cry, let the dead lie... life was made for living.
We have all made our choices.In the tales of bones in the boneyard wonders happen. Saints miraculously turn into sinners. sinners turn into saints. What a world. What a glorious world. The dance continues until the circle is complete.
But is the circle ever complete?
...or the dance?
Sleep well.
Tuesday, October 24, 2017
Let the victory prevail
A.R. Rahman, The Pussycat Dolls - Jai Ho (You Are My Destiny) ft. Nicole Scherzinger
So it was. For a pair that illuminated all that they touched, darkness surrounded them. A moments repreive. Saftey in the silent cloister. She had longed. She burned. Waiting. Yet so... had he. Throughout the night passion had burned so fierce. Yet always hidden. The soft move, the glancing touch. Conversations longing always to pass to the deeper, they language unspoken continually reaching out each to each desperate for contact.
She leaned against his car. waiting only for his advance. The press. The touch. The contact. The draw of heat rising from her skin by the slight elegance of his touch.
The laugh.
The giggle.
The turn to the side.
Would he move? Then she felt his touch. Then... his soft glance. A gentle trace that gave birth to an inferno. The pull, the lean, heated lips touching and in the slightest contact devastation born. Passr on brought to life could never be secured back. Erupting in its call to life, it was prepared to live, and in its life... burn ferocious. In each touch, each draw, the glance where the hard tripped electric acrosss the her soft, a lifetime was lived. Pleasure beckoned eternal.
The glancing contrast opening with the release of hooks that held, constrained, hills gentle sweet that felt the draw of his glance. Fingertips light caress, followed by the grip. Perhaps a flick, or two, across points so firm. So filled... so longing. A touch... the soft feel as his touch... his trace... drew along her waist. So ready... so heaving. His fingers drew designs of pleasure along her skin so tight. So burning. So calling... him. The wink of eyes laden with pleasure died again with the touch of his heated pleasure. So it goes. The brave die many deaths, and to die in pleasure only to be reborn anew. She melted to his touch.
The collapse of her soft surrender fell into his embrace. Her burning kiss displayed the desperation of connection... so long denied. She melted inwaistto him as he melted into her...
Let the victory prevail...
if only for a moment everlasting.
So it was. For a pair that illuminated all that they touched, darkness surrounded them. A moments repreive. Saftey in the silent cloister. She had longed. She burned. Waiting. Yet so... had he. Throughout the night passion had burned so fierce. Yet always hidden. The soft move, the glancing touch. Conversations longing always to pass to the deeper, they language unspoken continually reaching out each to each desperate for contact.
She leaned against his car. waiting only for his advance. The press. The touch. The contact. The draw of heat rising from her skin by the slight elegance of his touch.
The laugh.
The giggle.
The turn to the side.
Would he move? Then she felt his touch. Then... his soft glance. A gentle trace that gave birth to an inferno. The pull, the lean, heated lips touching and in the slightest contact devastation born. Passr on brought to life could never be secured back. Erupting in its call to life, it was prepared to live, and in its life... burn ferocious. In each touch, each draw, the glance where the hard tripped electric acrosss the her soft, a lifetime was lived. Pleasure beckoned eternal.
The glancing contrast opening with the release of hooks that held, constrained, hills gentle sweet that felt the draw of his glance. Fingertips light caress, followed by the grip. Perhaps a flick, or two, across points so firm. So filled... so longing. A touch... the soft feel as his touch... his trace... drew along her waist. So ready... so heaving. His fingers drew designs of pleasure along her skin so tight. So burning. So calling... him. The wink of eyes laden with pleasure died again with the touch of his heated pleasure. So it goes. The brave die many deaths, and to die in pleasure only to be reborn anew. She melted to his touch.
The collapse of her soft surrender fell into his embrace. Her burning kiss displayed the desperation of connection... so long denied. She melted inwaistto him as he melted into her...
Let the victory prevail...
if only for a moment everlasting.
Thursday, October 19, 2017
To know
Foo Fighters - The Pretender
She knew. What was he supposed to start this with? New Order? In this day and age where fine married Christian men post pics of their happy families after midnight. I won't say anything. The smile. The eye that he says is closed... yet remains open. So be it.
I know what she was thinking. Put her name up. Complete with her maiden name. Show she was there. A connection could be made. Did she really think that he was that stupid? Did she forget her final words to him? Her thereat when he approached as nothing more than a friend.
Did she think he wouldn't remember all the times she acted as if he was crazy. She wasn't there. She was so clad to the other. The one that created a singular, whereas she was desperate for confusion to muddle her life. So desperate she would crate it even if it did not exist. She had to have it. Perhaps to rebel... perhaps to live. So it was.
Did she not know?
Did she think that her feeble blows that regardless struck to the very hart of the one, HER ONE. The match. Souls mixed primal. Congrats. Did she, after fury at nothing, read the card she ripped in two. Did she? Did she even balk, dressed so elegantly in her bathrobe, in the middle of the street, in the middle of the day, while others where captured... in the middle of life, did she feel good as she saw him drive away.
Her one. Her break. The face in the corner of the mirror, that is only seen for a moment, yet when she turns to see... is gone.
Was he supposed to forget? About Ron. About Jay. Mike, Blake... heck any of the boys that she had called to her side. Of course this follows to any of the platforms she was on. For example, calls for one to fill the void could be sent out on Instagram, twitter, or any devce. She could convince. She could plead of love for country, before her and the other left to another country. It is to laugh. By showing she was on, especially with her old account, she had shown she had never really disappeared. She had always been on. That which she had so desperately denied
Lies, a brilliant land. To her health... Lady M. Just like her message... the one that backfired... about your presence. All she ever had to do was call. Like the old days, do the accidental call. Of course if that happened the worst thing of all might occur...
He might say hi back.
She knew. What was he supposed to start this with? New Order? In this day and age where fine married Christian men post pics of their happy families after midnight. I won't say anything. The smile. The eye that he says is closed... yet remains open. So be it.
I know what she was thinking. Put her name up. Complete with her maiden name. Show she was there. A connection could be made. Did she really think that he was that stupid? Did she forget her final words to him? Her thereat when he approached as nothing more than a friend.
Did she think he wouldn't remember all the times she acted as if he was crazy. She wasn't there. She was so clad to the other. The one that created a singular, whereas she was desperate for confusion to muddle her life. So desperate she would crate it even if it did not exist. She had to have it. Perhaps to rebel... perhaps to live. So it was.
Did she not know?
Did she think that her feeble blows that regardless struck to the very hart of the one, HER ONE. The match. Souls mixed primal. Congrats. Did she, after fury at nothing, read the card she ripped in two. Did she? Did she even balk, dressed so elegantly in her bathrobe, in the middle of the street, in the middle of the day, while others where captured... in the middle of life, did she feel good as she saw him drive away.
Her one. Her break. The face in the corner of the mirror, that is only seen for a moment, yet when she turns to see... is gone.
Was he supposed to forget? About Ron. About Jay. Mike, Blake... heck any of the boys that she had called to her side. Of course this follows to any of the platforms she was on. For example, calls for one to fill the void could be sent out on Instagram, twitter, or any devce. She could convince. She could plead of love for country, before her and the other left to another country. It is to laugh. By showing she was on, especially with her old account, she had shown she had never really disappeared. She had always been on. That which she had so desperately denied
Lies, a brilliant land. To her health... Lady M. Just like her message... the one that backfired... about your presence. All she ever had to do was call. Like the old days, do the accidental call. Of course if that happened the worst thing of all might occur...
He might say hi back.
Tuesday, October 17, 2017
Hope
Madonna: The Best of Ray Of Light
All you can do...
really...
is celebrate.
Present... as he said it, it was already a thing of the past. But... the future... it's nothing more than a quicksilver gift, the past is gone. The present, however fleeting, is all we have.
Prisoner of the past or pioneer of the future. Whatever choice, we hurtle forward regardless.
It was a picnic bench. A little faded, a little worn, it didn't matter... for that is where they sat. He filled with the charge, the energy, what would happen next. She was so close. She waited. She longed. He waited. He longed. Where were they? Did it really matter? For to the two the world had collapsed into merely the one to the other. Nothing else mattered.
Nothing Else.
Energy static had so built, between the two. Kinetic forms longing for release. The fire did nothing but burned even higher within. Her thigh... so close. The form... her perfection... so close. So close. So... close. Heaven... so close... so far. All it would take was a move. A press. All the while, the fire burned. So hot. So fierce. In the inferno he longed to be lost, if only... if only she would accept.
Laughter. He joked. She laughed. It only stoked the fire higher. How he desperately burned. Little did her know she desperately smoldered as well. She longed to feel his touch, his rise, his press, against her. So... close. Using the cover... he moved closer. Bodies seperated by a space infinitesimal... yet ... so distant. The hard against her soft. His push unrelenting. The two; made one... if only... if only.
He had tasted her burning fruits of passion only the week before. Should he long for the heaven found in her kiss? Would she accept? Would he fail? The price was too great. The risk of rejection too high. But the reward... to be lost in glory... it was too sublime. Heat, slow burning built in her lips. He looked, at something, anything, in the distance. For courage, to build. Would she want? Did she?
Meanwhile, heat... rising from its ember earlier in the night... had gown into a fire unquenchable. The longing... the desperation... so close... so far. Meanwhile the present, by friction caught, slipped in staccato into the past. Longing... burning to emerge...
into the celebration.
He must... he thought... turn and draw with a burning touch along the side of her jaw... so strong... so wanting... so waiting. The snap of a burn electric with a contact crating the perpetual burning energy... the draw along the jaw. Pulling toward... as his head pushed in... to taste... to be lost... in the inferno... of the passion. Shared unabashed. Building. Touches... building. Desire... building . Hair pulled... building. Neck devoured... building. Hand seeking hidden places... building.
Love...
building.
Hope...
building.
For a moment...
the world collapsed into the two.
And that is all that mattered.
Hope.
All you can do...
really...
is celebrate.
Present... as he said it, it was already a thing of the past. But... the future... it's nothing more than a quicksilver gift, the past is gone. The present, however fleeting, is all we have.
Prisoner of the past or pioneer of the future. Whatever choice, we hurtle forward regardless.
It was a picnic bench. A little faded, a little worn, it didn't matter... for that is where they sat. He filled with the charge, the energy, what would happen next. She was so close. She waited. She longed. He waited. He longed. Where were they? Did it really matter? For to the two the world had collapsed into merely the one to the other. Nothing else mattered.
Nothing Else.
Energy static had so built, between the two. Kinetic forms longing for release. The fire did nothing but burned even higher within. Her thigh... so close. The form... her perfection... so close. So close. So... close. Heaven... so close... so far. All it would take was a move. A press. All the while, the fire burned. So hot. So fierce. In the inferno he longed to be lost, if only... if only she would accept.
Laughter. He joked. She laughed. It only stoked the fire higher. How he desperately burned. Little did her know she desperately smoldered as well. She longed to feel his touch, his rise, his press, against her. So... close. Using the cover... he moved closer. Bodies seperated by a space infinitesimal... yet ... so distant. The hard against her soft. His push unrelenting. The two; made one... if only... if only.
He had tasted her burning fruits of passion only the week before. Should he long for the heaven found in her kiss? Would she accept? Would he fail? The price was too great. The risk of rejection too high. But the reward... to be lost in glory... it was too sublime. Heat, slow burning built in her lips. He looked, at something, anything, in the distance. For courage, to build. Would she want? Did she?
Meanwhile, heat... rising from its ember earlier in the night... had gown into a fire unquenchable. The longing... the desperation... so close... so far. Meanwhile the present, by friction caught, slipped in staccato into the past. Longing... burning to emerge...
into the celebration.
He must... he thought... turn and draw with a burning touch along the side of her jaw... so strong... so wanting... so waiting. The snap of a burn electric with a contact crating the perpetual burning energy... the draw along the jaw. Pulling toward... as his head pushed in... to taste... to be lost... in the inferno... of the passion. Shared unabashed. Building. Touches... building. Desire... building . Hair pulled... building. Neck devoured... building. Hand seeking hidden places... building.
Love...
building.
Hope...
building.
For a moment...
the world collapsed into the two.
And that is all that mattered.
Hope.
Monday, October 16, 2017
Don't give a damn bout my reputation
Holli Would Dance
She would wait
between the sips
Of a goose
So grey
She would show
She would prey
A moments dissolution
From the confusion
Of any anybody else
She thought of him
The desperate
moments
Of dissolution
From the confusion
Of when life was pure
Love
For sure
But she ran
Bless her
The confines
of one who finds
Her dalliance
Approach
acceptable
She surrendered so much
Sacrificed for the touch
Of antoher
As long as she was above
Them
In control
Them
For in the end
Love isn't about sex
It''s about power
To the powerless
'
Pitiful
Until you see
You will wanderer
Endless
As a Waif
Way to go
You hold the power
Unless
you journey
To
"What the fuck
are you doing here"
Way to go!
Feel your power
Start the slide
That none will know
across the side
Where fabric
Meets
The hip
The loss
For the moment
In extacy
If its me
Or someone
Else
Or even
The other
The fiddle
The faddle
Feel good
Amoungst the legion
to replace
The one sent
To replace
The others that come between
Salad
Take another sip
Another touch
and you will be
Complete
Salud
She would wait
between the sips
Of a goose
So grey
She would show
She would prey
A moments dissolution
From the confusion
Of any anybody else
She thought of him
The desperate
moments
Of dissolution
From the confusion
Of when life was pure
Love
For sure
But she ran
Bless her
The confines
of one who finds
Her dalliance
Approach
acceptable
She surrendered so much
Sacrificed for the touch
Of antoher
As long as she was above
Them
In control
Them
For in the end
Love isn't about sex
It''s about power
To the powerless
'
Pitiful
Until you see
You will wanderer
Endless
As a Waif
Way to go
You hold the power
Unless
you journey
To
"What the fuck
are you doing here"
Way to go!
Feel your power
Start the slide
That none will know
across the side
Where fabric
Meets
The hip
The loss
For the moment
In extacy
If its me
Or someone
Else
Or even
The other
The fiddle
The faddle
Feel good
Amoungst the legion
to replace
The one sent
To replace
The others that come between
Salad
Take another sip
Another touch
and you will be
Complete
Salud
Tuesday, October 10, 2017
Renaissance
STING & CHEB MAMI - DESERT ROSE
The renaissance. Its to be celebrated... after it is over. The rebirth, the rejoice, the new life born, celebrated by all who don't have to endure... to go through the pain of the renaissance. The strive to be born anew. The exhaustion, the pain, of emerging though the birth canal.
The hair producing a half hidden face. Always something would remain half hidden. The bending to reveal, followed by the soft tug pulling up. Did he notice? Was the soft passing moment of reveal catch his eye? Her smile was suppoed to cover her insecurity.
Did she know, his desire burning, to run his hand across her thigh. So close, so far, To touch... to know... to feel... to anything. Before he could, she moved. Just a hint away, but always away. Was it a beacon calling him forth, or a fence pushing him away. Movements in the lands of shadow he never saw.
The rain: would it pour in a deluge, or would it refrain-holding back the gift of life.
She laughed. Energy static shot from her lips. Her eyes burning pools of desire, So fierce that the retreat or advance was lost in the precious fire. The sudden shift towards... what did it mean? The silent delight, the silent death. The not knowing.
So is the renaissance... forever crawling toward the light.
Exhausting step...
followed by exhausting step...
Continued marching towards the light.
The renaissance. Its to be celebrated... after it is over. The rebirth, the rejoice, the new life born, celebrated by all who don't have to endure... to go through the pain of the renaissance. The strive to be born anew. The exhaustion, the pain, of emerging though the birth canal.
The hair producing a half hidden face. Always something would remain half hidden. The bending to reveal, followed by the soft tug pulling up. Did he notice? Was the soft passing moment of reveal catch his eye? Her smile was suppoed to cover her insecurity.
Did she know, his desire burning, to run his hand across her thigh. So close, so far, To touch... to know... to feel... to anything. Before he could, she moved. Just a hint away, but always away. Was it a beacon calling him forth, or a fence pushing him away. Movements in the lands of shadow he never saw.
The rain: would it pour in a deluge, or would it refrain-holding back the gift of life.
She laughed. Energy static shot from her lips. Her eyes burning pools of desire, So fierce that the retreat or advance was lost in the precious fire. The sudden shift towards... what did it mean? The silent delight, the silent death. The not knowing.
So is the renaissance... forever crawling toward the light.
Exhausting step...
followed by exhausting step...
Continued marching towards the light.
Tuesday, October 3, 2017
Sweet Dream
Beyoncé - Sweet Dreams (Steamweaer Club Mix) (Vj Dymmy More FT. Vj Leonardo Videro RMX)
She waited. Her legs softly parted, warmed from a night of his gentle caress along the soft supple of her inner thigh. The laugh. The gentle squeeze. Each movemnt, touching, softly building the excitement. She was ready. She longed to feel his touch rise,higher,forever higher. But when...when would her guilty pleasure come to fruition. Her moves forward, when would... when would he respond.
Her twist, her tear, he saw it all. He let the passion build. Soft signals she would recieve. All the while, the passion within him was rising, was building. His glancing touch. She would konw that his passion built until it could no longer bear the pressure. The bud that so desperately longed to bloom into a flower, consuming, raging, in its beauty, none could deny.
So it was. The touch, the kiss, each drawing forth from her the animal... the primal. The glance the drawing forth passion form the gentle, beautiful, all too often ignored underside that he would explore. His lips meanwhile, in kisses filled with passion, would consume.
She wanted. She longed. Her eyes half closed provided witness. She was lost in a maelstrom of passion. Her touches burning sought out his shape, his form, that which pressed against.
His hands caught, lingered, on that which made her so separate from him. The soft, the round, the supple. The curves where he lost himself, only to find a burning primal heat. His desire, so longing, so waiting, so burning to come, to become one with the target of his desire... to melt in her heat. to become one... in her heat. To return to the primal... in her heat. To reenter the garden of Eden... in her... to become one. In the burn, to somehow return, to the primeval.
Sweet Dream.
Crazy
Clarence Bekker (playing for change): Crazy
To start
To begin
Where exactly am I in
The middle of
The ending of
That
Which haunts
The game
For her
Little more
Than such
Just a game
To laugh
Is so much easier
Than to cry
Than to try
Just one more
One more
To break though
The fortress built
Around your soul
Crazy
Such is love
The giving of
The surrender of
On something
Built
Wings of gossamer
Amazing to fly
If one even dares try
To raise ramshackle contraption
If only for moments
Fleeting
Rishing
Above the earth
But to rise
Momentary moments
Almost frozen
Free
From the earth
The life
In the short span
Make the life
Without
Complete
In a way
To start
To begin
Where exactly am I in
The middle of
The ending of
That
Which haunts
The game
For her
Little more
Than such
Just a game
To laugh
Is so much easier
Than to cry
Than to try
Just one more
One more
To break though
The fortress built
Around your soul
Crazy
Such is love
The giving of
The surrender of
On something
Built
Wings of gossamer
Amazing to fly
If one even dares try
To raise ramshackle contraption
If only for moments
Fleeting
Rishing
Above the earth
But to rise
Momentary moments
Almost frozen
Free
From the earth
The life
In the short span
Make the life
Without
Complete
In a way
Tuesday, September 26, 2017
Play with me
Thompson Twins: Play with me
"Play with me"
Her eyes cried
Mercury retrograde
So they say
The pulling back
Followed by the mischievous smile
Beckoning one to follow
Be consumed by me
Be lost
In the fire
Of my desire
Piercing
The gentle turn
Displaying hips so full
So tight
So calling
Radiating
Waiting
Longing
For his touch
To rise
Across her thighs
To seek
The heat
Her Garden
of Eden
Hidden
Reserved
For you alone
Perhaps
The mischievous smile beckons
It is
Give in
For I long
To recieve
The burning touch
Placed
Traced
Alog the measured lace
Boundary
Wanting
Desperate
For you to cross
If you dare
For the pleasure
of burning kisses
Enflamed
as they
Rise
Higher
All the while
Her eyes cried
"Play with me"
"Play with me"
Her eyes cried
Mercury retrograde
So they say
The pulling back
Followed by the mischievous smile
Beckoning one to follow
Be consumed by me
Be lost
In the fire
Of my desire
Piercing
The gentle turn
Displaying hips so full
So tight
So calling
Radiating
Waiting
Longing
For his touch
To rise
Across her thighs
To seek
The heat
Her Garden
of Eden
Hidden
Reserved
For you alone
Perhaps
The mischievous smile beckons
It is
Give in
For I long
To recieve
The burning touch
Placed
Traced
Alog the measured lace
Boundary
Wanting
Desperate
For you to cross
If you dare
For the pleasure
of burning kisses
Enflamed
as they
Rise
Higher
All the while
Her eyes cried
"Play with me"
Tuesday, September 12, 2017
Assertion incomplete
DONNA SUMMER vs YAZOO - I Feel Deep Love Situation
The beat
Always drove
The primal
Each reach
The first
Each exploration
The new
Curves calling out hear
Crying for the touch
The feel
The caress
And in touches
Primal
Electric
To be transported
To the other world
Of
The two
Secluded
Though lost in a crowd
In the moment
In the smoke
To be lost
Each
To
Each
Static shot
From his hand
Her thigh
Strobe reflects
Frozen movement
Each pulse higher
And in the pulse
Life
Drawing forth
From her
Soft movements longing soft
Pressing
Encouraging
To move higher
To quench
To live
To die
In the caress
Primal
The soft
Melting
The hard
Pressing
Tracing touch
Marking
Her assertion
Complete
Yet
Unfinished
Signaled by
Desire drawn
Arch of her neck
Yet
Unfinished for
His advance
Voracious
Matched
Her hunger
Unending
In the moment eternal
The hunger
Has only awoke
The beat
Always drove
The primal
Each reach
The first
Each exploration
The new
Curves calling out hear
Crying for the touch
The feel
The caress
And in touches
Primal
Electric
To be transported
To the other world
Of
The two
Secluded
Though lost in a crowd
In the moment
In the smoke
To be lost
Each
To
Each
Static shot
From his hand
Her thigh
Strobe reflects
Frozen movement
Each pulse higher
And in the pulse
Life
Drawing forth
From her
Soft movements longing soft
Pressing
Encouraging
To move higher
To quench
To live
To die
In the caress
Primal
The soft
Melting
The hard
Pressing
Tracing touch
Marking
Her assertion
Complete
Yet
Unfinished
Signaled by
Desire drawn
Arch of her neck
Yet
Unfinished for
His advance
Voracious
Matched
Her hunger
Unending
In the moment eternal
The hunger
Has only awoke
She liked to hide in the bushes
Just Dance/Sweet Dreams - Lady GaGa vs Eurythmics mashup-remix
She liked to hide in the bushes
Watch the others play
Away
Fill the day
With laughter
While she
Hid
In her silent cloister
None could see
The slow death
Her heart's
Soft silent break
If none could hear
None would know
Almost as if it never happened
But it did
She would pick and choose
Past poems
Linger
From when she was
When something was
To be
Rather
Than history
Today
She could blot the memory
Of him
Of the times she was free
So it goes
She liked to hide in the bushes
Watch the others play
Away
Fill the day
With laughter
While she
Hid
In her silent cloister
None could see
The slow death
Her heart's
Soft silent break
If none could hear
None would know
Almost as if it never happened
But it did
She would pick and choose
Past poems
Linger
From when she was
When something was
To be
Rather
Than history
Today
She could blot the memory
Of him
Of the times she was free
So it goes
Tuesday, September 5, 2017
Stone in Love
Stone in Love - Journey
Journey
They were there
To provide
The soundtrack to early
Explorations in love
The shadows of
The halls of
school dances
Prances
Shuffled dances
Melodies sent
Ripping
Tearing
Through the dissolution
The confusion
Of what
Was about to be entered
Territory unknown
She came
Eyes
Persian
Corners bit tight
Pointing upwards
Forever upwards
Makeup
Made up
To entice
To watch
While her
Hips swayed
On the floor
The offer of
So much more
To the boy
Waiting
Wanting
To Cherish
To embrace
For a moment
To feel
The press of her soft
Growing heat
Against his hard
Strength
Waiting
Only
To devour
To become
One
With the Shadows
Came the longing kiss
That had waited
So long
To become
A sign
Of the longing
For more
So much more
The press
The pull
The hidden slip
The slide
Pushing towards
The heat
To be consumed
By
With
Forever
Her
The slip up
The skirt
The turn of her head
The neck revealed
Wanting
longing
to be devoured
The chase
For a reculse
Of the two
Burning
Fevered hot
Longing
For desire
To play
For a moment
Kisses begin the rise
Along
Thighs
Porcelain soft
The blemish of humanity
Hidden
While
Hips wide
Spread wider
To enjoy
To die
In his slow advancing march
Pressing toward
Heat building
Forever building
With the longing
To be quenched
Hands furious
lips drawing passion
buttons flew
Don't worry
A sign
Stone in love
Wednesday, August 30, 2017
Everything now
Arcade Fire - Everything now
He used to go through the rain. The storms. He thought of her.
Her soul.
A soul of sadness reaching out. No longer. Rather... now he wished she would hear the rolling thunder, streaks of lightning racing across the sky with power... so unlimited... so filled with rage... yet holding back with contacts contained, and think of him. The mind once enlightened can never again grow dark. That's what he wished.
But...
She wouldn't.
But such is life.
None of his comrades were there to support him. Save maybe Hemingway. At least he saw love for what it was... a temporary transient forever looking for a home. Society would look on disgusted as he held up his sign at the intersedtions... "Homeless please help." Each car that passed by would try to look away... Not me... Not know... he must be faking. Way to go love. Way to go Ernst.
He preferred you to the weak.. the submissive Neruda. Who somehow continued to elevate. Maybe he didn't see her pitiful form standing in the street in her bathrobe. Why? He was never sure. All he knew was that he had given his last full measure. To try perhaps the impossible... to open her eyes. Yet they remained so tightly closed. There was nothing he could do. But he refused to remain the fool.
But such is life.
She is happy. Or atleast she could pretend as much. Walking by houses, not as good as hers. She was better. If one could forget about the rotten foundation. Cracks in the wall that none could see. Save her. She would be blind. Blind to her own faults. She would smile. All was fine. As long as one backed off. From a distance all could appear fine. One would never have to consider her deformed dreams. Her porcelain face would appear perfect... from a distance. One would have to stand back. One would have to believe in the myth. One would have to believe... despite all evidence to the contrary. She had won. She was a winner. Weekly trips to the Tom Thumb made everything seem as if everything was normal.
So she....
Could stand...
In the middle of her street...
In her bathrobe...
Evicting that....
Which was the best she ever had....
Salud.
Enjoy you victory....
no matter how hollow....
You WON/...
Rejoice!
He used to go through the rain. The storms. He thought of her.
Her soul.
A soul of sadness reaching out. No longer. Rather... now he wished she would hear the rolling thunder, streaks of lightning racing across the sky with power... so unlimited... so filled with rage... yet holding back with contacts contained, and think of him. The mind once enlightened can never again grow dark. That's what he wished.
But...
She wouldn't.
But such is life.
None of his comrades were there to support him. Save maybe Hemingway. At least he saw love for what it was... a temporary transient forever looking for a home. Society would look on disgusted as he held up his sign at the intersedtions... "Homeless please help." Each car that passed by would try to look away... Not me... Not know... he must be faking. Way to go love. Way to go Ernst.
He preferred you to the weak.. the submissive Neruda. Who somehow continued to elevate. Maybe he didn't see her pitiful form standing in the street in her bathrobe. Why? He was never sure. All he knew was that he had given his last full measure. To try perhaps the impossible... to open her eyes. Yet they remained so tightly closed. There was nothing he could do. But he refused to remain the fool.
But such is life.
She is happy. Or atleast she could pretend as much. Walking by houses, not as good as hers. She was better. If one could forget about the rotten foundation. Cracks in the wall that none could see. Save her. She would be blind. Blind to her own faults. She would smile. All was fine. As long as one backed off. From a distance all could appear fine. One would never have to consider her deformed dreams. Her porcelain face would appear perfect... from a distance. One would have to stand back. One would have to believe in the myth. One would have to believe... despite all evidence to the contrary. She had won. She was a winner. Weekly trips to the Tom Thumb made everything seem as if everything was normal.
So she....
Could stand...
In the middle of her street...
In her bathrobe...
Evicting that....
Which was the best she ever had....
Salud.
Enjoy you victory....
no matter how hollow....
You WON/...
Rejoice!
Tuesday, August 22, 2017
Chance coincidence
When you're falling-Playing for change/Sweden
Chance coincidence. Text terse typed. So long ago. Time had passed.
She was the most beautiful girl in town. That's what he would tell you. Her eyes... a piercing radiant sun that erupted from a storm tossed sea. The softness of her skin composed to the sharp beauty of her jaw. Her petite breasts jutting so proud, so firm, from her chest. All of her body was a comforting shelter that he had sought refuge in. A sturdy bastion against the storms of the world. She... and he... they were ready to challenge all. Her spirit so brave, yet at the same time so timid. She lived in the contradictions.
Time had passed.
Like a madman, it was in the boxes of memory that he had kept that which was precious of her. The laughter, the joy, the pensioned longing for release, and of course the rampant deluge of joy... with being, with becoming, with the unprecedented joy of the one. In body and spirit. Bodies acting in the longing to dance to the songs that souls sung.
Time had passed.
Reality was little more than a cold blooded and persistent hag softly cooed into his ear. Words he knew. Words he saw. Words he did't want to hear... but words that lingered in their latency... he knew. They stood in stark juxtaposition to all he longed for. Though he could hear it, he knew it, he hated it. But he knew... in the beginning was the word... and the Word was good.
She was a blackbird persistent that plagued his mind. Flying from one box of memory to another. Softly tapping, rapping, at the doors longing to be let in. To plague with persistence. She had a glorious box of tricks to refute to diffuse. One was gas lighting. Another was to advance in such brave denial that it couldn't have possibly have been her. He knew her games. Rather than confronting, he would let her believe her own story. Let her wallow in her excuses. Why did he receive them as he approached the truth? Maybe it was because he meant nothing, or maybe it was because he meant everything.
She didn't have many friends.
The first time break her words were "What the hell are you doing here?" Moons passed. Tides turned. Only to end with "What the fuck are you doing here?" She won, he thought as he drove away. She got the last word. Or hold on a second... maybe one who has the last word is the looser.
Yet she persisted.
He took refuge in the fact that as long as the blackbirds were not released they could fly inside the mind as much as they wanted to. Let them fly. Try to build them a nest. Calm their ferocious and piercing movement. So it goes.
Chance coincidence.
Til he saw her. Her hair was a little frayed. Her eyes hidden by sunglasses. The other gleefully believing all was well. The small rotund dog clipped by her feet. It could have made the chicken scratch. It could have. He didn't say anything. Leave it be. What would have been gained? Nothing. What would have been lost? Nothing. Let it go. It was never that he was not good enough for her. Rather, maybe it was she that was never...
Well...
The play goes on.
After all... Time had passed.
Chance coincidence.
Chance coincidence. Text terse typed. So long ago. Time had passed.
She was the most beautiful girl in town. That's what he would tell you. Her eyes... a piercing radiant sun that erupted from a storm tossed sea. The softness of her skin composed to the sharp beauty of her jaw. Her petite breasts jutting so proud, so firm, from her chest. All of her body was a comforting shelter that he had sought refuge in. A sturdy bastion against the storms of the world. She... and he... they were ready to challenge all. Her spirit so brave, yet at the same time so timid. She lived in the contradictions.
Time had passed.
Like a madman, it was in the boxes of memory that he had kept that which was precious of her. The laughter, the joy, the pensioned longing for release, and of course the rampant deluge of joy... with being, with becoming, with the unprecedented joy of the one. In body and spirit. Bodies acting in the longing to dance to the songs that souls sung.
Time had passed.
Reality was little more than a cold blooded and persistent hag softly cooed into his ear. Words he knew. Words he saw. Words he did't want to hear... but words that lingered in their latency... he knew. They stood in stark juxtaposition to all he longed for. Though he could hear it, he knew it, he hated it. But he knew... in the beginning was the word... and the Word was good.
She was a blackbird persistent that plagued his mind. Flying from one box of memory to another. Softly tapping, rapping, at the doors longing to be let in. To plague with persistence. She had a glorious box of tricks to refute to diffuse. One was gas lighting. Another was to advance in such brave denial that it couldn't have possibly have been her. He knew her games. Rather than confronting, he would let her believe her own story. Let her wallow in her excuses. Why did he receive them as he approached the truth? Maybe it was because he meant nothing, or maybe it was because he meant everything.
She didn't have many friends.
The first time break her words were "What the hell are you doing here?" Moons passed. Tides turned. Only to end with "What the fuck are you doing here?" She won, he thought as he drove away. She got the last word. Or hold on a second... maybe one who has the last word is the looser.
Yet she persisted.
He took refuge in the fact that as long as the blackbirds were not released they could fly inside the mind as much as they wanted to. Let them fly. Try to build them a nest. Calm their ferocious and piercing movement. So it goes.
Chance coincidence.
Til he saw her. Her hair was a little frayed. Her eyes hidden by sunglasses. The other gleefully believing all was well. The small rotund dog clipped by her feet. It could have made the chicken scratch. It could have. He didn't say anything. Leave it be. What would have been gained? Nothing. What would have been lost? Nothing. Let it go. It was never that he was not good enough for her. Rather, maybe it was she that was never...
Well...
The play goes on.
After all... Time had passed.
Chance coincidence.
Saturday, August 12, 2017
Dreaming is free
Blondie: Dreaming--remix by Utah Saints
He opened his eyes to a glorious sight. There she was. Her head snuggled in the crook of his arm with her head reclining softly positioned on his chest. Her body pressed against his. He had fallen asleep holding her and she... she had apparently only moved closer in her slumber. She longed to pull to him, even in her sleep. The press of the bodies reflecting the desires of the soul: to become one. The golden sunrise colored her skin and shot highlights though her hair. He wanted this moment to last forever. He was amazed at the simple pure sight before him. His hand went to softly grace her hair. Not to wake, only to feel. To reassure him of that this was reality. You can tell you are truly in love, for it is little more than living in dreams awake.
He thought back to the day before. Her missed connection followed by his sudden decision. If she could not come to me I would go to her. It was madness. A midnight race across the staked plane with only the single light of his motorcycle to guide him. Well, that and the single flame that burned in his heart. A love that burned as fierce as it burned bright. No sacrifice was too great, no price too dear. He would charge hell with only a bucket of water for her. Just as she, she would have done for him. Or so he thought. That is one of the desperate side effects of love. It forces you to be vulnerable. To take off the mask that you can live within and you dare not live without. A small price to pay for living in a dream awake. For dreams cost nothing... save everything.
There is nothing more powerful when two are joined in the same dream. She sifted. The slight scent of the grace of sweat born from the passion play of the night before clung to our bodies. It didn't matter. It was real. She woke. That was real. He watched the tiny movements accompanying her stirring to life. As her eyes slowly opened and looked for his. Without hesitation, a smile graced her lips. The prize he so desperately had sought. A reality that reinforced the rebirth of the dream. With a kiss the dawn had broken, and for a moment the two entered into their dream awake. Even if by this time, he was the only one lost in the dream, such is love.
He opened his eyes to a glorious sight. There she was. Her head snuggled in the crook of his arm with her head reclining softly positioned on his chest. Her body pressed against his. He had fallen asleep holding her and she... she had apparently only moved closer in her slumber. She longed to pull to him, even in her sleep. The press of the bodies reflecting the desires of the soul: to become one. The golden sunrise colored her skin and shot highlights though her hair. He wanted this moment to last forever. He was amazed at the simple pure sight before him. His hand went to softly grace her hair. Not to wake, only to feel. To reassure him of that this was reality. You can tell you are truly in love, for it is little more than living in dreams awake.
He thought back to the day before. Her missed connection followed by his sudden decision. If she could not come to me I would go to her. It was madness. A midnight race across the staked plane with only the single light of his motorcycle to guide him. Well, that and the single flame that burned in his heart. A love that burned as fierce as it burned bright. No sacrifice was too great, no price too dear. He would charge hell with only a bucket of water for her. Just as she, she would have done for him. Or so he thought. That is one of the desperate side effects of love. It forces you to be vulnerable. To take off the mask that you can live within and you dare not live without. A small price to pay for living in a dream awake. For dreams cost nothing... save everything.
There is nothing more powerful when two are joined in the same dream. She sifted. The slight scent of the grace of sweat born from the passion play of the night before clung to our bodies. It didn't matter. It was real. She woke. That was real. He watched the tiny movements accompanying her stirring to life. As her eyes slowly opened and looked for his. Without hesitation, a smile graced her lips. The prize he so desperately had sought. A reality that reinforced the rebirth of the dream. With a kiss the dawn had broken, and for a moment the two entered into their dream awake. Even if by this time, he was the only one lost in the dream, such is love.
Saturday, July 8, 2017
Poetic Truth
Dave Grohl - Times like these acoustic
The shock had gone, at least the initial. The news. The absence sudden shocking. The crush. It made no sense. Not to her. Not to anyone. The lingering loss that seared her. Each time a pause. Each time a question why. It made no sense, the passing. It wasn't supposed to be. No hallmark after-school special ever addressed. Slight whispers never passed moments when parents tucked her in as a child, The promise of a new day waiting expectantly on the horizon. This was not supposed to be.
That is when she reached out to a rogue cavalier from the past. A simple move, perhaps he would notice, perhaps not. But he did sending a reply simple. Words, perhaps raw, perhaps eloquent, or maybe something more... by being less: Poetic Truth.
Should he remind her? The simmering beautiful confidence he saw in her whiplash smile every time he saw her. The greetings she passed with the mischievous look in her eye that beckoned one to join... just for fun. It would be fun, subtle reminder in her smile that never died. The shaded shock of blonde that stuck out beneath the sandy strains. The pink pursed lips that never failed to hold a smile for him, some nights making him believe that they were for him only.
Did she know what she needed to know? She was precious. Her trait, her persona, that called to life all that surrounded her? She may bear new scars from a pain unbelievable. But she will survive. Scar tissue is stronger than regular tissue. Not only that, but it is proof that she survived. She is a survivor. He would never forget the moments of escape when they were merely one. One with the other. Dangerously speaking truths each to each. To live in defiance of a world sedated in its slumbering half truths. All the while the pull, the undertow drew and danced each dangerously close to each.
Perhaps she forgot. When he had heard the news he kept his words to himself. She had gotten a job in an industry where the extension of only a promise was held as somehow more real than reality itself. Paper men and plastic women would cross, would remain resistant to her exuberance for life. They would not know. Or worse they would not care. They only longed for the saccharine. They longed to be fed only by daydreams of neverworlds. If their sight was clouded, they wouldn't have to see the reality. He had lost one to such a world. He could not bear to loose another.
But where it was? Where she was, he knew not. Where should he guide? Where should he console? Did he reveal too much in his shirtsleeve diplomacy? Did it matter? In the end... no.
She needed to know her strength. She needed to know the life that erupted in her eyes. She needed to know the truth she cried out stood forth as a beacon that shattered back the encroaching darkness. She was bold, she was beautiful, she simply was. And that was, and would always be...
more than enough.
Poetic Truth.
The shock had gone, at least the initial. The news. The absence sudden shocking. The crush. It made no sense. Not to her. Not to anyone. The lingering loss that seared her. Each time a pause. Each time a question why. It made no sense, the passing. It wasn't supposed to be. No hallmark after-school special ever addressed. Slight whispers never passed moments when parents tucked her in as a child, The promise of a new day waiting expectantly on the horizon. This was not supposed to be.
That is when she reached out to a rogue cavalier from the past. A simple move, perhaps he would notice, perhaps not. But he did sending a reply simple. Words, perhaps raw, perhaps eloquent, or maybe something more... by being less: Poetic Truth.
Should he remind her? The simmering beautiful confidence he saw in her whiplash smile every time he saw her. The greetings she passed with the mischievous look in her eye that beckoned one to join... just for fun. It would be fun, subtle reminder in her smile that never died. The shaded shock of blonde that stuck out beneath the sandy strains. The pink pursed lips that never failed to hold a smile for him, some nights making him believe that they were for him only.
Did she know what she needed to know? She was precious. Her trait, her persona, that called to life all that surrounded her? She may bear new scars from a pain unbelievable. But she will survive. Scar tissue is stronger than regular tissue. Not only that, but it is proof that she survived. She is a survivor. He would never forget the moments of escape when they were merely one. One with the other. Dangerously speaking truths each to each. To live in defiance of a world sedated in its slumbering half truths. All the while the pull, the undertow drew and danced each dangerously close to each.
Perhaps she forgot. When he had heard the news he kept his words to himself. She had gotten a job in an industry where the extension of only a promise was held as somehow more real than reality itself. Paper men and plastic women would cross, would remain resistant to her exuberance for life. They would not know. Or worse they would not care. They only longed for the saccharine. They longed to be fed only by daydreams of neverworlds. If their sight was clouded, they wouldn't have to see the reality. He had lost one to such a world. He could not bear to loose another.
But where it was? Where she was, he knew not. Where should he guide? Where should he console? Did he reveal too much in his shirtsleeve diplomacy? Did it matter? In the end... no.
She needed to know her strength. She needed to know the life that erupted in her eyes. She needed to know the truth she cried out stood forth as a beacon that shattered back the encroaching darkness. She was bold, she was beautiful, she simply was. And that was, and would always be...
more than enough.
Poetic Truth.
Tuesday, June 27, 2017
Two simple rules
Elvis Costello & The Attractions - Beyond Belief (Early Version) (by the way if the song bleeds into Elvis Costello's You Little Fool... that's okay)
So what is to be said in the vulgar age that desperately searches for heroes if only to rip them down. Especially at this hour. Almost after 10:30. The magic twilight that has replaced the water cooler. Where fine and happily married Christian men and women post pics of family, or of the day. Perhaps in honesty, or maybe a silent subterfuge calling out to another out in the darkness for one flirt, a doge, a smile, to feel young again. To escape the mortal coil, if only for a moment. To go from the known, to what might have been. To be wanted... if only in an illusory manner. As long as all can imagine and agree, it works. If only for a moment.
So what can I say. Two things. First: Everything changes. The ones you know, sorry to say, they can change. They might change. Pressure doesn't make character, it reveals it. The petty, the base, that which lies underneath... its all there. Charged vows made in a moment of passion go the way of the dodo. Can they change back? Perhaps. All moves. All twists. Some value their words, others... well let's just say not so much. Perhaps eternal love is too much to ask for this mortal coil. After all... They need new jeans. Or perhaps they must go to buy leather boots. You know the designer names. They are so important. More than that, they got a deal on it. Post.... brag... the acquisition of goods trumps all, n'est pas? Much more so than being one of character, than standing upright, than remaining outstanding when the rest of the world so desperately tries to make you fit in. It is so much easier. Everything changes.
The second rule is much more simple... everything is eternal.
Welcome to humanity.
Just never forget my two simple rules.
So what is to be said in the vulgar age that desperately searches for heroes if only to rip them down. Especially at this hour. Almost after 10:30. The magic twilight that has replaced the water cooler. Where fine and happily married Christian men and women post pics of family, or of the day. Perhaps in honesty, or maybe a silent subterfuge calling out to another out in the darkness for one flirt, a doge, a smile, to feel young again. To escape the mortal coil, if only for a moment. To go from the known, to what might have been. To be wanted... if only in an illusory manner. As long as all can imagine and agree, it works. If only for a moment.
So what can I say. Two things. First: Everything changes. The ones you know, sorry to say, they can change. They might change. Pressure doesn't make character, it reveals it. The petty, the base, that which lies underneath... its all there. Charged vows made in a moment of passion go the way of the dodo. Can they change back? Perhaps. All moves. All twists. Some value their words, others... well let's just say not so much. Perhaps eternal love is too much to ask for this mortal coil. After all... They need new jeans. Or perhaps they must go to buy leather boots. You know the designer names. They are so important. More than that, they got a deal on it. Post.... brag... the acquisition of goods trumps all, n'est pas? Much more so than being one of character, than standing upright, than remaining outstanding when the rest of the world so desperately tries to make you fit in. It is so much easier. Everything changes.
The second rule is much more simple... everything is eternal.
Welcome to humanity.
Just never forget my two simple rules.
Wednesday, June 21, 2017
Nonetheless
Robyn Hitchcock - The Ghost In You
In the night
The tune began to play
As his
Words long to betray
Describing the tantalizing pirouettes
of a glorious shade
In the half light
forever beckoned
yet remained
just a touch
out of reach
He would pursue
Driven
Til
The lights came on
and the shade vanished
It was a beautiful song
Nonetheless
In the night
The tune began to play
As his
Words long to betray
Describing the tantalizing pirouettes
of a glorious shade
In the half light
forever beckoned
yet remained
just a touch
out of reach
He would pursue
Driven
Til
The lights came on
and the shade vanished
It was a beautiful song
Nonetheless
Tuesday, June 13, 2017
Lingering Hesitation
It was the laughter in her eyes. He never wanted to hear them dim. Maybe that's why it was. Her sudden pause. The lingering hesitation. He turned to face.
They had pulled off to a side. A boundary. They stood, each to each, in a world of shadow, save one distant light. Perhaps that was the only place that was safe. A point just distant from the harshness of reality. It was here that she softly stuttered.
It was said, almost in a hush. Three little words.
That was it. It was nothing. It was everything. He was shocked. It had always been there. Those words. The elephant in the room that if by speaking its name both were afraid it would rip the environs asunder. Yet... by saying she had brought the hidden to life. To many they may just be words, but not to him. They marked a moment. An unspoken pledge hidden behind. Accept me. Embrace me. I devote myself to you... if only for a moment... deeper. Live with me, be with me, join with me... love me. Within those three little words was a simple destruction if their was no response.
Her laughing eyes were momentarily silenced by a shadow of fear. Those three words. Even though she had been the first to utter, he questioned if could be held so venerable. He knew the gravity, their seriousness. Indeed they held a power so bold that even though she had said them, could he be held so fragile. Could it be true? Those words. They were for him. She longed for return. He longed for her. He longed to say, to speak, to give life.
He pulled her close. The three words were returned. The shadow of fear that plagued her eyes suddenly dissipated. They pulled one to another. Bodies began to speak in words unspoken. Heated kisses filled with desire aced at times as verbs, at other times as definite nouns. Each touch, each caress, acted as a delightful adverb. The tracing caress drawing the bodies one into the other. The crash of the two, the hard into the soft. The push, the pull, the trace along all boundaries, while tongues consumed furious. All actions repeating the words simple three that both had been so hesitant to say. Words that their bodies had spoken unabashedly in hidden maneuvers long before the lips, the souls were able to catch up.
For at the end...
...the desire, the primal pull...
... had very little time, for any lingering hesitation.
They had pulled off to a side. A boundary. They stood, each to each, in a world of shadow, save one distant light. Perhaps that was the only place that was safe. A point just distant from the harshness of reality. It was here that she softly stuttered.
It was said, almost in a hush. Three little words.
That was it. It was nothing. It was everything. He was shocked. It had always been there. Those words. The elephant in the room that if by speaking its name both were afraid it would rip the environs asunder. Yet... by saying she had brought the hidden to life. To many they may just be words, but not to him. They marked a moment. An unspoken pledge hidden behind. Accept me. Embrace me. I devote myself to you... if only for a moment... deeper. Live with me, be with me, join with me... love me. Within those three little words was a simple destruction if their was no response.
Her laughing eyes were momentarily silenced by a shadow of fear. Those three words. Even though she had been the first to utter, he questioned if could be held so venerable. He knew the gravity, their seriousness. Indeed they held a power so bold that even though she had said them, could he be held so fragile. Could it be true? Those words. They were for him. She longed for return. He longed for her. He longed to say, to speak, to give life.
He pulled her close. The three words were returned. The shadow of fear that plagued her eyes suddenly dissipated. They pulled one to another. Bodies began to speak in words unspoken. Heated kisses filled with desire aced at times as verbs, at other times as definite nouns. Each touch, each caress, acted as a delightful adverb. The tracing caress drawing the bodies one into the other. The crash of the two, the hard into the soft. The push, the pull, the trace along all boundaries, while tongues consumed furious. All actions repeating the words simple three that both had been so hesitant to say. Words that their bodies had spoken unabashedly in hidden maneuvers long before the lips, the souls were able to catch up.
For at the end...
...the desire, the primal pull...
... had very little time, for any lingering hesitation.
Subways no way for a good man to go down
Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters - Indigo Girls
"So it goes."
That's Kurt Vonnegut, Jr..
“Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.”
That's Jack. Jack Kerouac.
Name of poetry. Eyes of wisdom staring down from some distant star. His sallow cheeks. His eyes bearing the pain of the world. He knew her. He knew what her final words would be to his trash can dream denied. He knew that even his demand of nothing, would be denied. The rich man can ride, and the hobo, he goes down. N'est pas?
So it goes.
But...
He still sees the world for what it is, and loves it anyway. Perhaps the next ones will rise. Not all, he laughed, but the few. Those that the world almost destroys. They are the ones that end up saving it you know. The true revolutionaries who listen for the songs of the city. They hear the voice of the downtrodden, and at least they try... try... to do something. Anything. They try. The pain they have absorbed, perhaps unberable, they use to pour out healing. Maybe this action is little more than them seeking thier own healing. Maybe so. Maybe not. Because they do it regardless.
But they cant see...
...and...
...that is why...
They know not if its dark outside or light.
"So it goes."
That's Kurt Vonnegut, Jr..
“Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.”
That's Jack. Jack Kerouac.
Name of poetry. Eyes of wisdom staring down from some distant star. His sallow cheeks. His eyes bearing the pain of the world. He knew her. He knew what her final words would be to his trash can dream denied. He knew that even his demand of nothing, would be denied. The rich man can ride, and the hobo, he goes down. N'est pas?
So it goes.
But...
He still sees the world for what it is, and loves it anyway. Perhaps the next ones will rise. Not all, he laughed, but the few. Those that the world almost destroys. They are the ones that end up saving it you know. The true revolutionaries who listen for the songs of the city. They hear the voice of the downtrodden, and at least they try... try... to do something. Anything. They try. The pain they have absorbed, perhaps unberable, they use to pour out healing. Maybe this action is little more than them seeking thier own healing. Maybe so. Maybe not. Because they do it regardless.
But they cant see...
...and...
...that is why...
They know not if its dark outside or light.
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Stir it
Enigma VS Madonna - The Enigma Within (okay so begin to read when the music begins)
The soft stir held in the sway of her hips soft movement. Soft skin danced at the edge of the light. Her eyes posed a question that he longed to answer. But could he? Did all have to be known. What did he know? His eyes were tempted by her dance. The full treasure hinted in the promise of soft gyration of her hips, only a step away. All the while her smile, bore, her longing for more. Closer.
Her hair. The gentle toss captured. Locks flowing, bracing, emphasizing the glory of her face. The fullness of her lips. The perfection of her chin. Jutting forward. The fullness of her body. Jutting forward. Her desire. Jutting forward. The silent and feeble camouflage of her hips pressing in their soft slow flow playing a mere distraction to the desire dripping from her lips.
Half smile hidden in a momentary turn away. Movements fractured, frozen, in time. Tame transforms to wild as the pulse beats slowly, Move to move, moment to moment, transfixing only on the next. Reactions reflecting only the call of the primal. They touch.
Moments burn eternal in the heat of the kiss. The entry into paradise leaves both longing. The bucking press. The press of his hands against her face as his lips tasted her burning desire. The dance of electric bodies caught in the whirlwind. The ballet of contrasts, the hard against the soft, The burning agony combined with the delight of the ecstasy. As mouths continued to speak the language of love unspoken each to each, his hands sought out her soft, her hands lingered low.
The glancing blow, the grace, her rising reaction to his touch. The close of her eyes, the surrender.
In the moment they would live eternal.
He pulled her close. His hands ran along her waist, dipping down, His hands felt the muscular rise. He pulled her close. He felt the heat rising. He longed to be consumed just as she, she longed to consume him. The soft slide, inside, followed by the rise. He felt the heat rise in a simmering boil. His hand drew near, the subtle retreat, only to draw even closer. Her eyes closed as lips laden with desire, softly parted. Waiting only for the burning contact. So soft, so slow. The soft circiling followed by the gentle press. Again. Again. Again.
Stoking the consuming fire.
The soft stir held in the sway of her hips soft movement. Soft skin danced at the edge of the light. Her eyes posed a question that he longed to answer. But could he? Did all have to be known. What did he know? His eyes were tempted by her dance. The full treasure hinted in the promise of soft gyration of her hips, only a step away. All the while her smile, bore, her longing for more. Closer.
Her hair. The gentle toss captured. Locks flowing, bracing, emphasizing the glory of her face. The fullness of her lips. The perfection of her chin. Jutting forward. The fullness of her body. Jutting forward. Her desire. Jutting forward. The silent and feeble camouflage of her hips pressing in their soft slow flow playing a mere distraction to the desire dripping from her lips.
Half smile hidden in a momentary turn away. Movements fractured, frozen, in time. Tame transforms to wild as the pulse beats slowly, Move to move, moment to moment, transfixing only on the next. Reactions reflecting only the call of the primal. They touch.
Moments burn eternal in the heat of the kiss. The entry into paradise leaves both longing. The bucking press. The press of his hands against her face as his lips tasted her burning desire. The dance of electric bodies caught in the whirlwind. The ballet of contrasts, the hard against the soft, The burning agony combined with the delight of the ecstasy. As mouths continued to speak the language of love unspoken each to each, his hands sought out her soft, her hands lingered low.
The glancing blow, the grace, her rising reaction to his touch. The close of her eyes, the surrender.
In the moment they would live eternal.
He pulled her close. His hands ran along her waist, dipping down, His hands felt the muscular rise. He pulled her close. He felt the heat rising. He longed to be consumed just as she, she longed to consume him. The soft slide, inside, followed by the rise. He felt the heat rise in a simmering boil. His hand drew near, the subtle retreat, only to draw even closer. Her eyes closed as lips laden with desire, softly parted. Waiting only for the burning contact. So soft, so slow. The soft circiling followed by the gentle press. Again. Again. Again.
Stoking the consuming fire.
In the growing shadows
Killers vs. Zombie Nation vs Bloody Beetroots - Somebody Warped Kernkraft 400
He found himself at a bar.
In the growing shadows he cursed himself. You see the bar was on the street, her street. He had taken caution to move his way there. A jut, a dogleg, a detour that elongated a simple trip into a crooked crusade. But it was done. He had to spend as little time on her street as he had to. True, the bar was much further down, but it was her street nonetheless. Inside, he looked at the guests. The simple divide of segregated tables filled with separate conversations. A microcosm or return to Jr. High School all over again. Girls with girls, boys with boys. Tongues flickered with the excitement of fashionable bravado of what could have been, might have been, should have... if only a coin had fallen the other way.
Yet the shadows grew. That is always where she found the most comfort, the partial hidden. Any slight sight of skin made her vulnerable. He laughed. He was little different. He preferrerd to hide in the plan open. The mask he wore was one of the rogue caviler. She could be the damsel in distress. She would find someone to save her, even if it wasn't him the fool paladin.
He laughed.
He had little time for that. He had to get her off his mind. This wouldn't have happened to Ulysses. Tempest tossed waves could never drown his vision. Not Ulysses. He would return home, he would break from his second act. He had to. The circle had to be complete. He laughed. A raise of the pint.
Time was linear. The shadows grew.
Well, he must have been a better man than he. The laugh while looking into the trace of carbonation surrounding the lip of the beer in his glass.
He had seen her on that street before. It was an accident. She was with the other. One of many. Walking, laughing, life was good... for her. She wore sunglasses so that she could cast a smile at anyone. Life is easier that way. He laughed as the pain hit his heart.
Inside, he felt it. That phantom pain. A name given to the pain in the arms or legs that had long been separated through amputation. You hear of the numb agony of World War One Vets. The sharp cry arising from a section of the body that is no longer there. The reality, it was nothing more than a ghost of something that would be forever gone. Rather than a limb, his pain rose from that section of his hart that he had given.
Growing shadows brought to his mind the temptation to drive by her house. For what purpose wasn't clear. She was disgusted by him. He had loved her so greatly he had killed her. Was it his fault? Was it hers? Neither. It was the passage of that irrevocable one known only as time. She had the freedom to change, as had he. So, she used her freedom, as had he. While she used hers to go one way, like a fool he had built a house of nothing more than cards that he told himself was so strong. So elegant. Till the winds came, causing it to crash.
The growing shadows at times released light.
The tumult had been too much. As his pyramid crumbled for the second time all he could do was watch aghast. It threw him back. The shock of returning to the neighborhood where you grew up to find that landmarks have been replaced by the new, the brash, which in a way makes them even more garish than they actually are. A piece of you was lost.
He forced his mind to change tracks. In the ash there was still so much. Traces of iron, thin as wire, continued to connect. Disjointed memories seemingly so insignificant numbed the sharpness of her cutting coup de gras. Driving, he doesn't remember where, or when. He only knew that it was at night. A sudden stop was called for. Like a protective tiger, his arm shot out immediately. Not for the pleasure of a stolen brush, no it was to protect her. To save her, if such a simple token could do anything. Why even a time or two, where there passion play had been stopped, in the flurry he had watched; he waited; to make sure that she had covered herself. So it was. She was gone. It was never him that wasn't good enough for her. It was she that wasn't....
He wouldn't say that. He couldn't. The dying cold of the glass signified that his drink was almost done. He wouldn't do a drive by. He would get off that street as soon as he could. He had to. Muddled thoughts only clouded his mind. The press of the door displayed his exit.
He knew his trip was over.
In the growing shadows he cursed, as he found the light.
He found himself at a bar.
In the growing shadows he cursed himself. You see the bar was on the street, her street. He had taken caution to move his way there. A jut, a dogleg, a detour that elongated a simple trip into a crooked crusade. But it was done. He had to spend as little time on her street as he had to. True, the bar was much further down, but it was her street nonetheless. Inside, he looked at the guests. The simple divide of segregated tables filled with separate conversations. A microcosm or return to Jr. High School all over again. Girls with girls, boys with boys. Tongues flickered with the excitement of fashionable bravado of what could have been, might have been, should have... if only a coin had fallen the other way.
Yet the shadows grew. That is always where she found the most comfort, the partial hidden. Any slight sight of skin made her vulnerable. He laughed. He was little different. He preferrerd to hide in the plan open. The mask he wore was one of the rogue caviler. She could be the damsel in distress. She would find someone to save her, even if it wasn't him the fool paladin.
He laughed.
He had little time for that. He had to get her off his mind. This wouldn't have happened to Ulysses. Tempest tossed waves could never drown his vision. Not Ulysses. He would return home, he would break from his second act. He had to. The circle had to be complete. He laughed. A raise of the pint.
Time was linear. The shadows grew.
Well, he must have been a better man than he. The laugh while looking into the trace of carbonation surrounding the lip of the beer in his glass.
He had seen her on that street before. It was an accident. She was with the other. One of many. Walking, laughing, life was good... for her. She wore sunglasses so that she could cast a smile at anyone. Life is easier that way. He laughed as the pain hit his heart.
Inside, he felt it. That phantom pain. A name given to the pain in the arms or legs that had long been separated through amputation. You hear of the numb agony of World War One Vets. The sharp cry arising from a section of the body that is no longer there. The reality, it was nothing more than a ghost of something that would be forever gone. Rather than a limb, his pain rose from that section of his hart that he had given.
Growing shadows brought to his mind the temptation to drive by her house. For what purpose wasn't clear. She was disgusted by him. He had loved her so greatly he had killed her. Was it his fault? Was it hers? Neither. It was the passage of that irrevocable one known only as time. She had the freedom to change, as had he. So, she used her freedom, as had he. While she used hers to go one way, like a fool he had built a house of nothing more than cards that he told himself was so strong. So elegant. Till the winds came, causing it to crash.
The growing shadows at times released light.
The tumult had been too much. As his pyramid crumbled for the second time all he could do was watch aghast. It threw him back. The shock of returning to the neighborhood where you grew up to find that landmarks have been replaced by the new, the brash, which in a way makes them even more garish than they actually are. A piece of you was lost.
He forced his mind to change tracks. In the ash there was still so much. Traces of iron, thin as wire, continued to connect. Disjointed memories seemingly so insignificant numbed the sharpness of her cutting coup de gras. Driving, he doesn't remember where, or when. He only knew that it was at night. A sudden stop was called for. Like a protective tiger, his arm shot out immediately. Not for the pleasure of a stolen brush, no it was to protect her. To save her, if such a simple token could do anything. Why even a time or two, where there passion play had been stopped, in the flurry he had watched; he waited; to make sure that she had covered herself. So it was. She was gone. It was never him that wasn't good enough for her. It was she that wasn't....
He wouldn't say that. He couldn't. The dying cold of the glass signified that his drink was almost done. He wouldn't do a drive by. He would get off that street as soon as he could. He had to. Muddled thoughts only clouded his mind. The press of the door displayed his exit.
He knew his trip was over.
In the growing shadows he cursed, as he found the light.
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
The game is afoot
Moloko / Lady Gaga / HIM / Justin Timberlake - Join The Poker House (Robin Skouteris Mix)
The light had just begun to go down. The sun sought its rest in the loving embrace of the horizon. She welcomed her lover with open arms. Longing for the union of the two. Under the growing canopy of darkness, reality would repair. It would take a rest. In the space of sanctum, dreams would take flight.
So, she lay. Her supple recline extravagant. Her shirt split just so. The slight reveal. The beckon hidden of a reveal only so slightly. With a brush, only a breath , a tantalizing trace would cause the flimsy fabric camouflage to be swept away. Her eyes, hidden in dark beauty, burn. To conquer, to captivate, to comfort? She would reveal nothing.
Save the desire burning in her lips.Though pursed, they had pierced him. Her long locks were cast to the side. She presented herself to him, unabashed. All he had to do was touch. All he had to do was trace. She would wait. All the while her desire burned.
He began soft slow. The trace. The standing boundary of her glory, her hair, bordered the sides so elegantly. It was part of her seduction. His soft touch pulling it back was a part of his. All a part of the soft dance slow, that burned red hot. Time was not their ally. Scheduled moments of seclusion were rare and constantly fleeting. Yet the most would be made of their quicksilver moments. The world had its rules, but now that they were in the world of the two, they were the lords and ladies of all that transpired in their kingdom.
The lean towards was met by her rise against. Lips, longing for union melted one into the other. His hand traced along the edge of the fabric. The black yielded so readily to his draw along the periphery. Her arch, her intensity, showed her hunger. The travel under, the journey into the hidden he knew so well delighted both. His trace forever amazed by the burning yielding flesh of her soft that longed for the touch. The travel. From top to bottom. The passion of her kiss grew in their fury. Desire longed to become actual.
His kiss traced further down. Drawing passion as it journeyed down her jaw so strong. The slight sight of the lace holding darker circles below tantalized. In the seclusion of the sanctum they had formed she forgot the world, concentrated only on her desire for his trace to press, just a little furhter, to fall until it reached its goal.
He knew his kisses burned across her flesh so soft. He felt the electricity rise. Drawing power, drawing desire from her very pores. His soft kisses circled. The slow movement around points that rising to meet the embrace, the glancing touch, the teasing flick, his tounge softs press against her hard vaulting electric longing for his touch.
So he traveled. His touch pressing towards her heat, as her fingers felt for his prize. To feel, He loned to be enveloped, she loned to be consumed. The heat burnt fierce in anticipation of sliding friction in anticipation. The union so longed for would soon be met. The game is afoot.
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