Echo & The Bunnymen: Lips Like Sugar remastered
She might twist her hair. The trusses falling down. Its gentle caress upon her shoulders as the trace merely fell across her eye. Making sure she could be seen, she could see, but holding something back.
She knew what she wanted, but first she had to enjoy the game. The slow reveal. The quicker hide. She knew the game: it was what she lived by. The beckon with a quick smile. The flash of white that escaped from between her lips. Lips full, deadly in their drawing beauty. However, he was different, perhaps the mischievous flash in his eyes. Maybe it was their piercing clarity. His words that captured, enraptured. That caused her to want to remain. To step closer than she knew was safe.
He longed to draw her into the undertow. The gentle pull forever drawing the two far from the safety of the shore. Where they could drown in the passion, one to the other. Collapse and fall into the burning heat. The longing to consume, and to be consumed.
His moves, so focused, so directed, did he need to tell her? The fullness of her body. The press of her soft. In passions play his gentle tickling trace along the soft under, to reach the fullness of the front. His drawing pull with the glancing guide electric across the darker skin that rose to meet the shock caused by his touch electric. Or should he tell her that his pulls across her ripe full hips pulling them, pulling her, so close to him. His hands voracious drew her into him so that he could die, to live eternally. All the while, the shock of her kisses electric burned his passions only higher.
To be lost in the undertow.
To be lost in you.
To be found.
Tuesday, March 21, 2017
Salud
Lady Gaga/Madonna: PERFECT DISCOLLUSION
The price seemed to dear. The memories too true. With a flash, he could selectively memorize the twists the turns, forget that which goes against. Maybe he was the fool. He would smile and point out: that maybe it was she. It was her.
It was pure, once. Like so much. Indeed it was good, so good that it made her forget, even if only for a moment, that her mask so precious was allowed to slip. If only for the moment. He saw her for her; and she was beautiful.
This is something she could never accept. She had been taught, even told, from a very young age, that her beauty did not make her special. Indeed, her priests, her parents, her peers seemed to reinforce that it was her beauty of body and of soul that made her ugly. That she would have to live a life of penance for an action so grievous. Sadly, she was a fool to believe it.
So it was. She watched from the bushes. Forever afraid that others might see her for who she thought she was, and reject her. Then events happened. Maybe in her neighborhood, maybe in the cloistered confines of a crammed corner of a camp in Colorado. Hands ravenous ran over that which she was told was precious to a point. The defiling of her soul matched the corruption of her body.
The she met him. Or was it he that met her. Or was it merely the momentary touch; a glance allowed by the fates. They had a moment... for whatever that was worth. A moment of blessing? A moment of curse? Does it matter? She was accepted totally by him, and he? Well she let him think that.
Then she retreated. The bush would no longer suffice. Now she would hang, she would cleave to the shadows. If they did not exist, then by god she would create them. That is where she was safe. She could lie in the shadows, and in the shadows... they would provide the half light that would add life to her lies. Her beauty, that which he had seen, was gone. It could have been in remission, it could have been sublimated by the caustic poison of the facade that ate into her soul, birthing its gangrene. Salud.
If your a strong female you don't need permission... only problem was that she wasn't one of the strong ones.
The price seemed to dear. The memories too true. With a flash, he could selectively memorize the twists the turns, forget that which goes against. Maybe he was the fool. He would smile and point out: that maybe it was she. It was her.
It was pure, once. Like so much. Indeed it was good, so good that it made her forget, even if only for a moment, that her mask so precious was allowed to slip. If only for the moment. He saw her for her; and she was beautiful.
This is something she could never accept. She had been taught, even told, from a very young age, that her beauty did not make her special. Indeed, her priests, her parents, her peers seemed to reinforce that it was her beauty of body and of soul that made her ugly. That she would have to live a life of penance for an action so grievous. Sadly, she was a fool to believe it.
So it was. She watched from the bushes. Forever afraid that others might see her for who she thought she was, and reject her. Then events happened. Maybe in her neighborhood, maybe in the cloistered confines of a crammed corner of a camp in Colorado. Hands ravenous ran over that which she was told was precious to a point. The defiling of her soul matched the corruption of her body.
The she met him. Or was it he that met her. Or was it merely the momentary touch; a glance allowed by the fates. They had a moment... for whatever that was worth. A moment of blessing? A moment of curse? Does it matter? She was accepted totally by him, and he? Well she let him think that.
Then she retreated. The bush would no longer suffice. Now she would hang, she would cleave to the shadows. If they did not exist, then by god she would create them. That is where she was safe. She could lie in the shadows, and in the shadows... they would provide the half light that would add life to her lies. Her beauty, that which he had seen, was gone. It could have been in remission, it could have been sublimated by the caustic poison of the facade that ate into her soul, birthing its gangrene. Salud.
If your a strong female you don't need permission... only problem was that she wasn't one of the strong ones.
Saturday, March 18, 2017
Gates of heaven
Venus in furs remix
"You should do what you want to do," soft words passed though lips burning with desire. "It's a free world" she smirked as her eyes beckoned me close. As he pressed close, her simmering heat seduced him. In the charged atmosphere he began the press against her soft. He pulled close. Longing to press, to fill, to become one. Laden lips grew close. The unbearable distance is that which is the closest. Denied only by degrees. His lips drew close. In a burning trace they made an approach towards her mouth. The soft full of her hips began undulated in a soft dance. Beckoning. She longed to have her desire filled. His hands began the trace along the edge. Where lace met skin. His finger drew as his palm felt her longing rise. The kisses, once slow, now began to walk the furious line of holding back, barely, from becoming the animal passion. Her hands began to pull along his back. While one hand began the gentle dive below the lace in search of her sensitive skin, he other hand grabbed around the small of her back. He pulled him to her. He drew her in. As she moved to pull him closer to her. Her soft part. His clutching draw. Kisses, lost int he white heat of passion, displayed the simmering fire that burned would soon rise into an inferno. In the parting of her lips, he found the gates of heaven.
"You should do what you want to do," soft words passed though lips burning with desire. "It's a free world" she smirked as her eyes beckoned me close. As he pressed close, her simmering heat seduced him. In the charged atmosphere he began the press against her soft. He pulled close. Longing to press, to fill, to become one. Laden lips grew close. The unbearable distance is that which is the closest. Denied only by degrees. His lips drew close. In a burning trace they made an approach towards her mouth. The soft full of her hips began undulated in a soft dance. Beckoning. She longed to have her desire filled. His hands began the trace along the edge. Where lace met skin. His finger drew as his palm felt her longing rise. The kisses, once slow, now began to walk the furious line of holding back, barely, from becoming the animal passion. Her hands began to pull along his back. While one hand began the gentle dive below the lace in search of her sensitive skin, he other hand grabbed around the small of her back. He pulled him to her. He drew her in. As she moved to pull him closer to her. Her soft part. His clutching draw. Kisses, lost int he white heat of passion, displayed the simmering fire that burned would soon rise into an inferno. In the parting of her lips, he found the gates of heaven.
Saturday, March 11, 2017
She tried
Laday Gaga/Bang La Decks / Ken Roll - THE UTOPIAN AURA
She tried. Tried to hide the passion she longed to hear. The touch. The dwell. His heated lips rising to hers. She longed to hear the justification of her desire: burning. Feeling the return of his passion smoldering trace across her lips laden with desire.
The feel of his desire burning trace along his the glancing touch, the furtive passion burning. The slow rise in his grip from her hips across the soft heat rising from her stomach so tight. Pressing up, towards, his rise. The glance, the burn, the desperation fulfilled from his touch across the swell of skin longing too long to feel his press.
Her soft heat rising. His hard reply pressing. Her lips so full, so burning, waiting to be filled by the touch of him against her. Her passion inflamed by the circling kisses upon her neck. Burning to the touch. The slow advance. His lingering around the bottom of her neck. Drawing, inflaming, building the desire for touch along her skin. His hands gentle caress under, the pulling draw, around the colored ring, the trace across the gentle texture rising to his touch. Waiting for his advance soft sure in circling draw. Ever closer, ever just a seeming unbearable absence from: they connection desired. The circling press towards the center as his kiss rose.
His hand meanwhile slid down. The grab across. The fullness pressed against him. The grab, the draw, the pull for the press. He felt the pull of her heat. Her longing to engulf him. To surround him as the bodies joined. The slight circling of her his. Her invitation slight, as her smoldering grew into an inferno. Her subconscious invitation. Join in the primitive dance primordial.
The contact of lips to lips she felt undoubted the response of his desire. How it longed to burn in her. In the language unspoken his words were heard loudest of all. The rise of his touch, teasing, pleasing her tender points rising of her own. Standing firm to feel each glance, each brush that swept, crossing, drawing, across her zone. Forbidden, in its limits to others, but not to him; never. Sparks excitedly lept from his fingertips to the tips of her desire
All the while his kisses left her mouth and began a further trace down. Though her eyes were closed, she leaned forward into each and every advance made. They began with the parting at the front. His hands left her for only a moment to part the mask, the snaps of fabric that hid her beauty. She had used it to protect herself from the shadowmen, but now she longed to reveal herself to him.
The glory of her burning revealed itself, soft, to slow to his kisses burning. As his mouth began its slow advance she felt the slow press of his burning desire rise across hier inner thigh. Rising. As his circling kisses drew closer, ever closer. In his gentle puck, his soft engulfing surrounding tug and pull, she burned with desire.
A desire reflected in his rise, ever advancing, ever retreating, ever waiting. Till, the moment came; she felt his touch rise along her thigh. Ever higher, ever rising the heat of her flame as it grew, as it drew, closer to her epicenter. The source, the target, that could only be quenced in the touch, the taste, the real. The soft bucking of her hips against his rise. Beckoning, waiting, always for the burn to be destroyed in the consuming heat of him. Till then, she would wait, or... at least she tried.
She tried. Tried to hide the passion she longed to hear. The touch. The dwell. His heated lips rising to hers. She longed to hear the justification of her desire: burning. Feeling the return of his passion smoldering trace across her lips laden with desire.
The feel of his desire burning trace along his the glancing touch, the furtive passion burning. The slow rise in his grip from her hips across the soft heat rising from her stomach so tight. Pressing up, towards, his rise. The glance, the burn, the desperation fulfilled from his touch across the swell of skin longing too long to feel his press.
Her soft heat rising. His hard reply pressing. Her lips so full, so burning, waiting to be filled by the touch of him against her. Her passion inflamed by the circling kisses upon her neck. Burning to the touch. The slow advance. His lingering around the bottom of her neck. Drawing, inflaming, building the desire for touch along her skin. His hands gentle caress under, the pulling draw, around the colored ring, the trace across the gentle texture rising to his touch. Waiting for his advance soft sure in circling draw. Ever closer, ever just a seeming unbearable absence from: they connection desired. The circling press towards the center as his kiss rose.
His hand meanwhile slid down. The grab across. The fullness pressed against him. The grab, the draw, the pull for the press. He felt the pull of her heat. Her longing to engulf him. To surround him as the bodies joined. The slight circling of her his. Her invitation slight, as her smoldering grew into an inferno. Her subconscious invitation. Join in the primitive dance primordial.
The contact of lips to lips she felt undoubted the response of his desire. How it longed to burn in her. In the language unspoken his words were heard loudest of all. The rise of his touch, teasing, pleasing her tender points rising of her own. Standing firm to feel each glance, each brush that swept, crossing, drawing, across her zone. Forbidden, in its limits to others, but not to him; never. Sparks excitedly lept from his fingertips to the tips of her desire
All the while his kisses left her mouth and began a further trace down. Though her eyes were closed, she leaned forward into each and every advance made. They began with the parting at the front. His hands left her for only a moment to part the mask, the snaps of fabric that hid her beauty. She had used it to protect herself from the shadowmen, but now she longed to reveal herself to him.
The glory of her burning revealed itself, soft, to slow to his kisses burning. As his mouth began its slow advance she felt the slow press of his burning desire rise across hier inner thigh. Rising. As his circling kisses drew closer, ever closer. In his gentle puck, his soft engulfing surrounding tug and pull, she burned with desire.
A desire reflected in his rise, ever advancing, ever retreating, ever waiting. Till, the moment came; she felt his touch rise along her thigh. Ever higher, ever rising the heat of her flame as it grew, as it drew, closer to her epicenter. The source, the target, that could only be quenced in the touch, the taste, the real. The soft bucking of her hips against his rise. Beckoning, waiting, always for the burn to be destroyed in the consuming heat of him. Till then, she would wait, or... at least she tried.
Tuesday, March 7, 2017
Little more than a shadow
Lady Gaga/Swedish House Mafia/Eurythmics - Marry the word
The words don't come easy. They fight me. I fight them. What you see is little more than a compromise between our wills. The heart, and the head. They battle. The fight is for nothing... save everything. So it goes. The necromancers dance with lifeless bones yellow with age. My mind wanders back to F. Scott.
What did he do with his Zelda? When they first raged, it was funny. Then she questioned "What the hell are you doing here?" Years later, there was a change. Now it simply was "What the fuck are you doing here?" Almost the same I suppose. But not quite. Zelda had matured. That much could be sure. If not in mind, then certainly in madness. Did F. Scott see? Were the folds lifted for a moment? Did he see the passage of time she could not stop? Thinning hair, rising blemishes in the skin, the increased difficulty she found in slowing the advance of time. Like so much else of her, it could be repaired, covered. All it would take is time.
But more importantly did he see the caustic burn of her beauty? Like a diminutive poison it had sapped beneath her skin. Corroding, disposing anything and everything it touched with its acrid gangrenous touch. So it worked, so it sank, until its dark fingers touched and corroded her soul. Oh F. Scott, what ever will you do?
Some say she kept a bevy of boys in her stables. In that hay floored hell, burning touches that were supposed to give life instead sapped it. In her pulling away only a collapsing shadow remained. Poor fools. Zelda, she was always a hairs breath away from becoming Daisy. Pleading for salvation from her Tom desperate to find her Ray that somewhere in her younger days she abandoned. Sadly, it, like so much else, was gone forever.
It was lucky she was beautiful. In cocktail conversations Zelda desperately tried so hard to be witty, to sound intelligent. Occasionally however, she might stammer. But her beauty, even if she had learned to loathe it, would buy her forgiveness. The world is all too ready to believe that beauty somehow is equal to goodness. They would turn a blind eye as Zelda continued to flirt with her Tom, or others that F.Scott didn't care to share. What would that solve? The ones he knew were the dalliance with Michelangelo. Or furtive stolen whispers shared with P.K. All else were only whispers and logic. Sadly though, she never realized that her beauty was little more than a shadow. A faded shadow she longed to make real.
Perhaps that's why as night grew heavy his hand would grasp his glass a little tighter. Like a Bettie Davis or even a Melanie Griffith, Zelda clung to hear beauty even if it cost everything else. As long as Vaseline could be put on the lens, combined with a focus so precious and soft, the wrinkles wouldn't look so deep. The facade could be maintained while it slowly ate away at her essence. As long as she could hear the faded cries of approval, she could blot out the truth. Bless you Zelda. Bless you F. Scott.
The words don't come easy. They fight me. I fight them. What you see is little more than a compromise between our wills. The heart, and the head. They battle. The fight is for nothing... save everything. So it goes. The necromancers dance with lifeless bones yellow with age. My mind wanders back to F. Scott.
What did he do with his Zelda? When they first raged, it was funny. Then she questioned "What the hell are you doing here?" Years later, there was a change. Now it simply was "What the fuck are you doing here?" Almost the same I suppose. But not quite. Zelda had matured. That much could be sure. If not in mind, then certainly in madness. Did F. Scott see? Were the folds lifted for a moment? Did he see the passage of time she could not stop? Thinning hair, rising blemishes in the skin, the increased difficulty she found in slowing the advance of time. Like so much else of her, it could be repaired, covered. All it would take is time.
But more importantly did he see the caustic burn of her beauty? Like a diminutive poison it had sapped beneath her skin. Corroding, disposing anything and everything it touched with its acrid gangrenous touch. So it worked, so it sank, until its dark fingers touched and corroded her soul. Oh F. Scott, what ever will you do?
Some say she kept a bevy of boys in her stables. In that hay floored hell, burning touches that were supposed to give life instead sapped it. In her pulling away only a collapsing shadow remained. Poor fools. Zelda, she was always a hairs breath away from becoming Daisy. Pleading for salvation from her Tom desperate to find her Ray that somewhere in her younger days she abandoned. Sadly, it, like so much else, was gone forever.
It was lucky she was beautiful. In cocktail conversations Zelda desperately tried so hard to be witty, to sound intelligent. Occasionally however, she might stammer. But her beauty, even if she had learned to loathe it, would buy her forgiveness. The world is all too ready to believe that beauty somehow is equal to goodness. They would turn a blind eye as Zelda continued to flirt with her Tom, or others that F.Scott didn't care to share. What would that solve? The ones he knew were the dalliance with Michelangelo. Or furtive stolen whispers shared with P.K. All else were only whispers and logic. Sadly though, she never realized that her beauty was little more than a shadow. A faded shadow she longed to make real.
Perhaps that's why as night grew heavy his hand would grasp his glass a little tighter. Like a Bettie Davis or even a Melanie Griffith, Zelda clung to hear beauty even if it cost everything else. As long as Vaseline could be put on the lens, combined with a focus so precious and soft, the wrinkles wouldn't look so deep. The facade could be maintained while it slowly ate away at her essence. As long as she could hear the faded cries of approval, she could blot out the truth. Bless you Zelda. Bless you F. Scott.
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