Ready steady....

Madonna - Ray Of Light

It happens.  Every morning.  Pioneer?  Prisioner?  Victim?  Victor?  What will you choose?  For in the end, you know, it is your choice.

The song, so bittersweet, from a dusty haired siren, filters to you.  Call to rise?  Call to your death?  You laugh.  It's all you can do.

All you can.

For its your choice.

It is your dance.

In movements...
Subtle soft
Move majestic!

Don't count on others.  They will turn.  Loyalty means nothing to them.  I suppose it shouldn't.  The world was here first.  The game goes on.

Every mountian climbed, finds only another mountain.  Climb anyway.  In the struggle, is life.  And where ever their is life.  There is hope.

Climb.

You are magnificent.  Remember that.  The weight is not so heavy.  You can bear it.  You will bear it.  You have done it all your life.  Do it smiling.  They cannot break you.

They will not break you.

With only a quick movement, turn the smile into a smirk.

You are a survivor.

The gods wait...

To delight in you.

In you.

You are a miracle walking.
You are the thunder.
You are the lightning.
You possess power.
Unleashed...
Makes sure...

The bastard's wont win
They could never win
It's merely there game
Where you refuse
To be a simple pawn

You are so much more
Unrestrained

I tell you
Only
What you already know

You are the Victor
You are the Pioneer

The day
is yours

Ready
Steady
Go!

The strech

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fiKj1FNBE3Q

She was so clever.  Her stretch, might loose her balance.  Called him to place,  his hands on her hips.  So full.  So supple.  So glorious

The soft supple curves... burning.  Waiting.  Wanting.

She turned her head.  The smile.  To let, it be known, advance would be welcome.  If only he would listen to the drums.  To her drums.  Beating.  Pelting.  Burning to be met the touch by flesh.  His flesh.  In her most secret, her most sacred.  Heat rises.

One of his hands followed her supple curve down.  The other up.  The rise.  A smile accentuated by her press back.  The brush.  The touch.  Flesh crying to flesh. 

Contact.

She waited a moment.  This would make it seem a mistake perhpas.  Till he pressed forward.  Knowing her message was received, her press now turned to a twist. 

His hands determined slow. 

One traced along the line.  Accompanied by, heat so burning.  So stressing.  For the touch.  So close.  So far.  The other felt, the glory, of her weight, so full, so glorious, so... trapped.  In its lace coffin.  Yet he felt, the weight, so laden.  So constrained.  Points desperate to be... to exist... so free.  Could he?  Would he?  Then she felt, his pushing down.  Of her elastic barrier.  The touch.  The trace.  Against skin sacred. 

Her grin turned towards something different.  Desire fuming.  The adults game, the adults play, fuming.  Her soft pressed, so elegantly, against his hard.  She pushed.  She pulled.  She...

Longed.

Up.  Down.  The way.   As his hands pressed her modes.  Erogenous.  The feel.  The drive.  She belonged to him.  For a moment.  Unspoken.  Yet in that moment frozen... she lived.  Fully. 

Oh so fully.

As she felt his touch rise.  Pass all corridors elastic, into the ecstatic.  Plunging into her desire.  Press into greeting hips.  So heated.  Collapsing onto fulfilled points as he slipped beyond, into, desire so fuming.  So wanting.  So waiting. 

Her eyes closed.  May she know.  She was so ever beautiful.  So ever wanted.  As she greeted.  His passion laid bare. 

The touch.

Waits.     

So

"Desert Rose" by Sting featuring Aishwarya Rai

The move
At the beginning
So sweet
So innocent

Disguising
The desire

Earthen
So
Desperate
With each
Centimeter
Each inch

Higher
Across

Her thigh
So unblemeshed

So hidden
Pure

Your lust
Desire
Drawing his
Higher

That feels
The touch
Of his tongue
Forever rising
As she
Desperately awaits
To die
In each advance
As each touch
Every kiss
Sapps
Life
As it replenishes
To be caught
In the rising passion
His hands
Trace
Along skin
So hidden
Yet
So calling
For the touch
The press
Of another
The feel
The whole
Made
Complete
The rising burn
Fulfilled
Yet
His touch
Chills
To only enflame
The burn
Of the fire
Waiteing

To be fulfilled

But in the shadows
Her fire burns

So hot

So heated

Waiting only

For
His touch
To the point
So hidden
So desperately
Lest someone
Discover
Her passion
The churning
Burning
Point
of fascomatom
That his tongue
Draws upon
Circulation
Surrounding
Give yourself
To me
He cried
He knew
Her

Reasoner
Hollow

Yet the trace
The tongue
Continued rise
Citculang
Of you hips
Against
His  cirle
So strong

Waiting only for yout

Response

A rise
aginst
His pelt

So gentle

Gone

KT Tunstall - "The Boys of Summer"

She will wait
always
wait
Until

The female
Has replaced the male

So be it

In cloistered shadows
The laugh resounds

Was it a dream

Despite
Reviews glowing
Of the artist stuggling
How his move
How his pause
Makes
A difference
To someone
Will change
Someone

What did he know?

What did

Why did

It matter?

He spoke of the one
The struggle against
The machine
So powerful
So
Omnipresent

He made a differnce
He made a change
To hands clutching
Dismantiling
A system psychopathic
That rewards only those
Who cower

Should he
Speak of
The she?

Hair excellent
Body
Glorious
She knew
The touch
Shimmering in the half light
Who could afford to loose
Herself for a moment
Stolen
From herself
From society
She does not know
Or knows perfectly well
So many
Choices

So many

I never will forget those nights
Remember how I made you scream

So long ago

So long

As she waited for her boys
Of summer
The past
Collides
With the present

So much
So

So
She dances
As love
Dies
Slowly

Hidden pirouettes
Crying out for life
As the turn
Reveals
Nothing
Save the gasp
The cry
For fulfillment
She abandoned
So long

Ago

So they wait
Till the boys of summer
Are gone

So far

Gone

Spaniard

Gladiator: Are you not entertained?

Spaniard
They would call him
Rising amongst the others
The best
The ultimo
La prima
Who cares

While his fellows
Would cry out
of students
Who won awards
All the while
A little fatter
A little more hollow
Than the year before
He took pride in all of his students
Perhaps not glorious
Perhaps not beautiful
But the ones who had for fight
For each success
Step by step
Slice by silice
Carving out
Demanding of the world
What she would not revel
At first

So it was
Like his school
That didn't even call him for a first round
Despite awards won
Recognition by others
Decrying glory
His
To ears gone so deaf
To eyes so blind
Simply because
The people
Whom he elevated
Called Spaniard

So it was

Are you not entertained?
Are you?

The cry
Spaniard
Carries him out of the arena

Every time you smile

Arcade fire: Everything now

I'm in the black again
Can't make it back again
Can't pretend

Trapped
In a homogeneous hell
The smile fades
She made it
From her trip
driving with the headlights off
The loved her
They touched her
So distant
So despeerate

As the odemoeter
Clicked off
Every mile passed
Every Tuesday
Or Thursday
Depending on the presence
Of the other
The one
She was supposed to proclaim

Everything now

Unless it was at night
After a time
When she
Could
Contact
To give
The hollow promise
Of a touch
The heated bush
Across
The thigh
She would be
So supplicant
Parting
For a moment
A hidden moment

Everything now

Life desperate
Promise
So desperate
If they wanted
She would
Reveal
In half
The promise
Of making whole
The city cries
Wait
Until she
Can't
Fulfill
Her cry
Her promise
Hollow
So hoped
So promised
But until
Her reveal
Coquettish

Everything now

Longing for the rise
Passion devastating
The heated kiss"
rising along her thigh
Desperate to meet
The rising heat
From the apex
Golden
To bury
To press
To be home
For a moment

Daddy how come you're never around?

Everything now

Every time you smile

It's a fake

I know

Yet

Join the celebration
Can't make it back again

From everything now

Father's son

The Magnificent Seven Theme • Elmer Bernstein

Different age.

Perhaps.

Ferocious men stadning in the way of anyone who stood for the lesser men, the unknown men, the forgotten men.  Pier-stone on the periphery... could be aided. 

Maybe so.  Maybe not.

Father's son. 

That's me.

She walked into the office.  He caught her case.  It was happenstance.  Ragged, transient, son of Dixie proud.   Louisiana girl in all her glory.  Great with child, great with problems.  Not to be confused with the so many that had entered his office door before.  Yet he was a lawyer so filled with vim, so filled with vigor, take the case... fight for justice.  Justice was that he would serve.  The blind bitch... she would be forced to see those who were brought before.

If the tears swelled in her eyes, so be it.  She would see.  Her scales would tip in his favor.  The favor of right.  That is what our grand experiment was founded upon after all.  Wasn't it?  Even if you would make him travel all the way to the highest court of the U.S.A heDem would make you relent, realize, that you could do little less than offer the prize, to his client, wanting only to awake to the American dream.  If he must be the magic maker... so be it.

So it was.

Then came I.

His offspring.  Wanting more, demanding more, than no less.  All are equal, all are the same.  Beliefs, so simple... so naive.  Somehow believing that the order, so established, would let him get away.  With a simpleton belief that love was pure, that all would see, each other, as facets of themselves.  What a fool.  Simple.  He took the beats of his overlords.  So simple.  So caustic.  Simple lips  Standing so proud 

His films aroused such feelings from those.  The empowered unvoiced to which he had given a moment of voice... of choice.   Unwilling to remain victims... but victors.  This was not to be had. Not in hollowed sanctums where the oppressed would forever remain r the oppressed.  They preferred to remain in the stasis rather than fight for the advance.  Salud.  You have your own fathers.  And I am not your son. 

I am my Father's son.

The one who took a case to the Supreme Court.  The one that ensured equality for all. 

And just to let you know... I am his son.

And so far... by you...

I am not impressed.

Salud.

Three.

Mariachi Cover - Linger - The Cranberries

Three. 

That's what they say. 

One must fall in love three times.  The first.  Puppy.  So blind.  An introduction.  To a world... so Byzantine.  Alone traveling catacombs desperate for a light.  Yet believing the light cast out could suffice.  Just as the mayfly believes... in its short life, it would last forever.  For it's short life, be it a day... or two, it was forever.  The laughter, the elation, combined with the devastation, each were so short so fundamental if only to build to the number two.

He was there.  Gifts, one to the other.  For him it was Regatta del Blanc.  Hey, he thought it was cool.  She enjoyed.  Or at least she said so.  A month later, phone call from Paris, would signify that this ex-patriot should look for someone else.

So it goes.

Number two.  This is the one.  The burning fire that is supposed to forge the metal.  Blind beauty creates the most powerful of all.  The searing burn of every joy.  The utter delight of every dismay.  Smelting touches launch passion ready to ferocious flames leapt into so blindly.  So blind.  Siren's song crying each to each.  To feel the little death of each moment apart, to be repaid by the cataclysmic renaissance upon the reunion.  The rejoin of one to the other, to renew the one forged by the two.  In defiance of all... the one against all.

He knew this too.  The cataclysmal catalysist.  The one that forced him to drop is mask if only to feel the searing hot touch, as his hand rose.  Ever higher.  The hip.  The thigh.  The longing, the pulling, the shallow death just a moment from life.  And she... so it seemed.. longed to be made complete.  In the other.  Til the others, became the sedating placebo.  For the truth.

The truth.

Yet... 

This to...

must come to an end.

So they say.  In order to reach the third.  A love marked... scared by this world.  One is supposed to bow and accept.  Less than.  For nothing can be... settle for less.  Times.  Occurrences.  Her finger tracing along the book spine.  The clutching of hips, so soft, so subtle, so tight, that led his mind to wander... the tracing kiss along skin so soft, forever rising towards her heat.  Shallow, action following only action.  Quenchable fires surrounded by the difficulty... quenchable fires die.

The past.  The future.  All caught in a tense.  A tense that makes all that much more tense.

She might whiseper a secret, manic-depression.  He might believe. 

That is until he saw Goodwill Hunting once again.  One was a man caught in a past he could not escape, the other a man, such talent, who was afraid to let the future into his present.  Sociopath they called him.  One who could bend, others to make them think that he was there, all the while reserving, so they could avoid the pain... crushing... devestating... a pain he knew all too well.  Feeble blows showing fear, knowledge, that she had lost out so long ago.

He laughed. 

So it was.