Cat Stevens - The Wind (Host Bodies Remix)
She was a blue blur. Light pirouettes filled her afternoon as she danced from table to table in her blue dress. Red flowers provided points along her trim. She had with her a boundless companion. She was at a precious age. It could have been eight. It could have been nine. She was caught in that lovely first time where we reach a the precipice: a primary point of becoming. The one she wanted to become she had decided was one that frolicked.
Her companion was also boundless. He was also eight, or nine. Well in his case it was in months. He was a beige Golden retriever. Huge paws and a gargantuan head that his body had yet to grow into. Just like his partner: the world was his oyster. Curious he pounced from table to table. With this girl that was fine. It allowed her to meet. To introduce herself. The world would know her... she had decided, and the world would know her. Each table cooed at this cute drop of heaven. So innocent, so happy. They would laugh as the leash of the puppy tied itself around legs of chairs... of people. It didn't matter. The dog was just as desperate in its desire to explore... to know. The girl was happy for it allowed her to meet more people. She had already decided that she had never met a stranger. All loved her and she loved all. A tip of the glass to her.
Her Mom watched out of the corner of her eye. She knew her daughter was in a safe place. Yet, being a Mom she stopped her conversation after a phrase or two, for just a glance. All she wanted was to make eye contact. To assure that her vagabond was safe. That was until her daughters boisterous laughter became unstoppable. The tiny clarion call to life reached all on the patio.
She eventually found her way out to me... or maybe it was her dog. He sniffed around my feet while she merely smiled. I said "Hello." This apparently was tremendously funny as she leaned back her head and laughed furiously. The puppy, being a puppy, twisted himself into a problem. I grabbed the leash lightly and told her to get to the other side and guide the puppy back. Without concern she skipped to aid the canine who in actuality was just fine.
As she walked to the next table, I hoped that she would always remain fine. Sometimes life, as dreams, as people, is all too tender. I hope she never finds a stranger that wants to do her harm. To take her to places she doesn't want to go. A cloister that unleashes monsters. A place that dims the sun she carries by teaching her heart to know fear. May she continue to never meet a stranger.
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
Tuesday, February 21, 2017
Anything to distract
Eurythmics-sexcrime (extended mix 1984)
Words. She always thought they came easy. In a society, where the raw is no longer eloquent. When society runs from the real. Heretics are the only ones who speak the truth. Jesters grow silent in the corner. His words were practiced... they were sharp. Just as she. When... she walked.
The undulating, beckoning movement of her hips. One leg, elegantly placed so light, in front of the other. A diminutive dance as her hair falling from her shoulders softly shook. Movements disciplined she tried to maintain in profile. Making sure he saw a glance. Just a sight. A hint of tthe full, supple side of her thigh carefully hidden under the dancing of her skirt. Her stocking legs merely provided a hint of the hidden treasure beneath. She knew that lines meant to be invisble would be seen.., if he only looked. He would see.
Walking behind, he was able to capture a glimpse; He was looking, but he had to make it seem as if he wasn't. The savage must be contained, captured, behind a smile. Her beauty, her heat, was radiating. She wanted to feel. To touch, to be touched. Her finger delicately drew along the spine of a book, where the two would speak of Geiger... Monet... Matisse... Dalai... any thing to distract, to divert desire. Distract from the tiny dance of courtship. At each pause, each break, he drew closer to his desert rose. His Jordan flowing. Longing to bask in her waters so warm, to be surrounded.
So it was. She moved. To gaze at old magazines. To look at Look. Ads filled with art-deco. The lines so firm, the bending shapes soft curvature revealing always the artst's trace. His touch. Softly lovingly forming each line. Each curvature caressed to be drawn into full points growing frim, growing full, till the sharp points drew themselves full in expectation of being seen, of having the fingers trace.
She grabbed a magazine, just as suddenly as she sat. In the brief moment of passing, he saw what she longed for him to see. The flash of white. The stripes going from top to bottom, or bottom to top. He didn't know. He didn't care. The soft pass of her settling, the diminutive exposure as she gained her compose. The draw, the undertow, the pull towards her. That which she had so longed for. The real hidden behind the facade. Fulfillment of the unquenched burning, that had smoldered so long. She felt his hand, the gracing touch that could almost be forgiven as accidental, become more focused and directed in its elevation. She turned away if only for a moment. She knew she could not maintain the game much longer. With each glance she became intoxicated to his touch.
It was dark outside. Not that that mattered. She had already lost herself. The tremble in her lips longed to capture the fire from his. She felt the hardness of his body press against her. She pushed forward, trying to melt into him with the fevered grip of the lovers passion. If they would burn it would be glorious.
Lips spoke forbidden truths each to each in a language that would only be defamed, desecrated in an attmpt to translate. The would meld. He was determined. He pressed her into him. Drawing her body ever closer to him. His press along the gentle, supple, arrogant curve. His trace drawing her body further into life. A singing truth shouting to a dead fast wold pleasures they had long forgotten. The sacredness, the burning heat, that too many had forgotten. The melding behind the eyes too heavy with desire to remain fully open. Perhaps only seeing a little of a dying world, or only allowed a glimpse of a sacred truth, the world has too long forgotten. His draw. Her press. A lover's bite on a supine neck. As her head arched skyward longing to enter the glory; to beat the confines of a weary world.
Words. She always thought they came easy. In a society, where the raw is no longer eloquent. When society runs from the real. Heretics are the only ones who speak the truth. Jesters grow silent in the corner. His words were practiced... they were sharp. Just as she. When... she walked.
The undulating, beckoning movement of her hips. One leg, elegantly placed so light, in front of the other. A diminutive dance as her hair falling from her shoulders softly shook. Movements disciplined she tried to maintain in profile. Making sure he saw a glance. Just a sight. A hint of tthe full, supple side of her thigh carefully hidden under the dancing of her skirt. Her stocking legs merely provided a hint of the hidden treasure beneath. She knew that lines meant to be invisble would be seen.., if he only looked. He would see.
Walking behind, he was able to capture a glimpse; He was looking, but he had to make it seem as if he wasn't. The savage must be contained, captured, behind a smile. Her beauty, her heat, was radiating. She wanted to feel. To touch, to be touched. Her finger delicately drew along the spine of a book, where the two would speak of Geiger... Monet... Matisse... Dalai... any thing to distract, to divert desire. Distract from the tiny dance of courtship. At each pause, each break, he drew closer to his desert rose. His Jordan flowing. Longing to bask in her waters so warm, to be surrounded.
So it was. She moved. To gaze at old magazines. To look at Look. Ads filled with art-deco. The lines so firm, the bending shapes soft curvature revealing always the artst's trace. His touch. Softly lovingly forming each line. Each curvature caressed to be drawn into full points growing frim, growing full, till the sharp points drew themselves full in expectation of being seen, of having the fingers trace.
She grabbed a magazine, just as suddenly as she sat. In the brief moment of passing, he saw what she longed for him to see. The flash of white. The stripes going from top to bottom, or bottom to top. He didn't know. He didn't care. The soft pass of her settling, the diminutive exposure as she gained her compose. The draw, the undertow, the pull towards her. That which she had so longed for. The real hidden behind the facade. Fulfillment of the unquenched burning, that had smoldered so long. She felt his hand, the gracing touch that could almost be forgiven as accidental, become more focused and directed in its elevation. She turned away if only for a moment. She knew she could not maintain the game much longer. With each glance she became intoxicated to his touch.
It was dark outside. Not that that mattered. She had already lost herself. The tremble in her lips longed to capture the fire from his. She felt the hardness of his body press against her. She pushed forward, trying to melt into him with the fevered grip of the lovers passion. If they would burn it would be glorious.
Lips spoke forbidden truths each to each in a language that would only be defamed, desecrated in an attmpt to translate. The would meld. He was determined. He pressed her into him. Drawing her body ever closer to him. His press along the gentle, supple, arrogant curve. His trace drawing her body further into life. A singing truth shouting to a dead fast wold pleasures they had long forgotten. The sacredness, the burning heat, that too many had forgotten. The melding behind the eyes too heavy with desire to remain fully open. Perhaps only seeing a little of a dying world, or only allowed a glimpse of a sacred truth, the world has too long forgotten. His draw. Her press. A lover's bite on a supine neck. As her head arched skyward longing to enter the glory; to beat the confines of a weary world.
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
At least she had a dog
Dave Grohl - Times Like these
At least she had a dog.
Remember that. Well... that... and that none can ever take away the dance you danced. They will forever be full of passion. Though frozen, it's there. Every tragedy turns into a comedy given enough time. And that and all fairy tales will... do... and must I suppose... finally come to an end.
He knew that. The whole part about her having a dog. If he knew anything, he knew that. From the tiny scratches of the nails dissipating down a hidden hallway it had gone to notify, to proclaim of the arrival of one hidden behind a door.
The meeting, he thought. It didn't have to be... but it did. He had been prepared. He picked a card, then another, then... the final one he knew it would be. It was a pretty card. It was simple. But what to write? This was the question he had to face.
His words would be short. Inspired by Kerouac he knew "In the end I will find the right words, and they will be simple." They would be short. They would be simple. They would be pure. Reduce what he knew to what he knew. A return to nothing more than the essence. "Continue to chase the horizon in your new year" he wrote. Then came the kicker... "Thank you for your friendship. Always," and then he signed his name. He looked at . Examined this writing. Though he had been so careful, forever afraid that his chicken scratch might reflect badly. It was neat. It would suffice. So it would be.
The dog had disappeared. He did not have much time. He placed the card in the mailbox. Should he stay?
He paused.
The door opened. She was smiling. Her voice caught in the sing-song of contentment. Although oil was low, stock prices were high... so her smile made sense. His Daisy was dressed in the Haute Culture of a Robe and pajamas. As it was almost 11 o'clock, this I suppose was perfectly normal attire... at least in her world. Her face, perhaps was punctuated by cold cream. Her eyes were either covered with a kind of safety glass or perhaps due to a hidden betrayer carried in her genes, she could be wearing glasses now. Her hair was natural, and she was smiling.
At least she was until she recognized it was him.
Filled with fury, she screeched out. Her final words were classic. While before, her silence had left questions it was now the now. Her words, her actions, revealed her heart. The careful counting of his words were lost as she ripped the tiny token in half. Though the romantic in him would love to cling to the prior moments of pause, the spaces in between, he knew that all along he had been nothing, At least to her. To grab hold of the future, you have to let go of the past. So it goes.
In the cold dark he hoped she would remember that she had won. To that victory she should cling. If she even bothered to recall. Bless you Daisy.
But none can ever take away the dance they had danced.
That... and at least she had a dog.
At least she had a dog.
Remember that. Well... that... and that none can ever take away the dance you danced. They will forever be full of passion. Though frozen, it's there. Every tragedy turns into a comedy given enough time. And that and all fairy tales will... do... and must I suppose... finally come to an end.
He knew that. The whole part about her having a dog. If he knew anything, he knew that. From the tiny scratches of the nails dissipating down a hidden hallway it had gone to notify, to proclaim of the arrival of one hidden behind a door.
The meeting, he thought. It didn't have to be... but it did. He had been prepared. He picked a card, then another, then... the final one he knew it would be. It was a pretty card. It was simple. But what to write? This was the question he had to face.
His words would be short. Inspired by Kerouac he knew "In the end I will find the right words, and they will be simple." They would be short. They would be simple. They would be pure. Reduce what he knew to what he knew. A return to nothing more than the essence. "Continue to chase the horizon in your new year" he wrote. Then came the kicker... "Thank you for your friendship. Always," and then he signed his name. He looked at . Examined this writing. Though he had been so careful, forever afraid that his chicken scratch might reflect badly. It was neat. It would suffice. So it would be.
The dog had disappeared. He did not have much time. He placed the card in the mailbox. Should he stay?
He paused.
The door opened. She was smiling. Her voice caught in the sing-song of contentment. Although oil was low, stock prices were high... so her smile made sense. His Daisy was dressed in the Haute Culture of a Robe and pajamas. As it was almost 11 o'clock, this I suppose was perfectly normal attire... at least in her world. Her face, perhaps was punctuated by cold cream. Her eyes were either covered with a kind of safety glass or perhaps due to a hidden betrayer carried in her genes, she could be wearing glasses now. Her hair was natural, and she was smiling.
At least she was until she recognized it was him.
Filled with fury, she screeched out. Her final words were classic. While before, her silence had left questions it was now the now. Her words, her actions, revealed her heart. The careful counting of his words were lost as she ripped the tiny token in half. Though the romantic in him would love to cling to the prior moments of pause, the spaces in between, he knew that all along he had been nothing, At least to her. To grab hold of the future, you have to let go of the past. So it goes.
In the cold dark he hoped she would remember that she had won. To that victory she should cling. If she even bothered to recall. Bless you Daisy.
But none can ever take away the dance they had danced.
That... and at least she had a dog.
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