Echo and the Bunnymen: Lips Like Sugar Remix
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Monday, February 24, 2014
Under a dog star sail
Sting Why should I cry for you?
Winged heels
Forever chase
Mornings rose hue horizion
All in attempts
To keep his eyes on
An elusive mirage
The promise of peace
Prometheus punished
For giving fire to man
Shackled wrists
Longing to grasp
But desperate to release
The precious quicksilver kiss
The fleeting coats
Searing dissipation
Mixed with euphoric
Elation
He knew
A ship is safe in harbor
But that’s not what ships are for
So he sailed the tempest tossed
Longing to see forever
While longing forever for the shore
In the distant dissonance
It has to be
A safe portage lies
For he
Yet seething madman’s howl
Smashes the breaking oceans hiss
He unfurls the sail as
Laughing command
Over absent crew
While the bow
Breaks the troubled water
Friday, February 14, 2014
The Tigress
Gypsy Kings Viento del Arena
Clouds building billows
Across night sky as
The hunter hungry
Like a tigress
Clouds building billows
Across night sky as
The hunter hungry
Like a tigress
She lay
Finely formed skin
Supple soft recline
Enchanting to his mind
While she
Waiting for his eyes
To betray
In distraction
For in eyes hidden
Lies her tensioned
Call to action
To pounce
To consume
To animal possess
To feel the heat
The struggle
Of flesh
To flesh
That she so longed
To caress
In the distance the thunder rolled
He approached
To feel
Skin soft tremble
At the touch electric
Absorbed the burning heat
Though unable
Ready
Ready
To meet
The tigress pounce
With no retreat
With no retreat
Tiny drops began to fall
Wetting all
Save the burning fire
Save the burning fire
Pure, holy, consuming heat
That glowed fierce in her eyes
Traveling down to enflamed lips
That glowed fierce in her eyes
Traveling down to enflamed lips
Dripping passion
No retraction
No retraction
No retreat
Burning contact
Burning contact
Mouths transfixed
Speaking words unspoken
In the Passion play
With the audience of the full moon
Bright encouraging the ravenous holds
Bright encouraging the ravenous holds
Drawing the other tight
In the lightning crescendo
Her gentle soft
Touching caress
His hard firm chest
Longing to draw the two into one
His hands slow rise
Sliding under fabric
Finding a touch of lace
As his lips travel
To explore her face
Tracing lines along
Her jaw so strong
So heated
So dripping with desire
And the storm has only begun
Poor Charles Bovary
Uninvited (Brothers in Rhythm Mix) Alanis Morissette
Poor Charles Bovary.
He looked at her.
In his hand the crinkled wax paper carrying the take out had grown
light. His other hand rested on the
steering wheel. A cold and lifeless
substance touched skin that so longed to feel the heat that radiated from her golden
pure skin. He had driven hundreds of
miles. He had come to the city to seal a
deal. That is what he told his
wife. His passenger meanwhile, why she had driven three. The business… ha… that had been easy. Now began the primordial hunt: the close game
of chess to seal a deal unspoken between the he and the she.
The longing for consummation of the desire building
grew between the two. He didn’t tell his
wife about this deal. Don’t worry… his
passenger hadn’t told her husband. Indeed,
the reason the food was takeout was her request. She could not be seen. Not with him.
Though three miles from her house, she could not afford detection. Not if the transaction was to take
place.
Her hangout hideout was located nearby the strip of restaurants. The shadow end parking lot of a distant store
that was only visited by the Stepford wives amalgamated during the day with
children in tow. This trek usually
followed a morning workout filled with brazen flirtations. Perhaps innocent, perhaps serious, always
playful. To be longed for, something,
anything to fill the void.
Why did she workout?
She knew she had to stay beautiful.
She had to stay forever young. To
hide the fact that her body was a victim of the slow decay of mortality, she
had to look good. This was as much for
her husband as well as the other ladies in the pack. Any sign of weakness would cause her to be
consumed.
The hideout served as an excellent locale for the
scurrying movements of shadow hands desperate in the search for hidden heat. An accepted dalliance. The Madame had gone there before. He didn’t know this. He could only concentrate on the growing
passion flowing within his blood. The
moment of exquisite pain, the painful labor that visited the birth of passion. Nervously he combed back his dusty blond hair
as the blood coursed through his veins.
When should he strike. When?
That’s what I think happened. At least that’s when Charles emerged from the
store. Poor simple fool. He wasn’t supposed to be in town. Not that weekend. Miles were supposed to separate the two. At least that’s the way it was supposed to
be.
Maybe if one
of the other stores in the similar chain had had his item he wouldn’t have been
at that store. Maybe. Maybe if he just gave up in his quest he
wouldn’t have seen. This whole thing was
just some play of consequence. It could
be that, but Charles never liked to think the Universe was that lazy or that
benevolent. He saw them.
The faded stream of light from the halogen lamp in
passing through the shade made the interior reflect blue. The blond of her hair became jaundiced. Shadows danced across half her face as if
shamed by what the other half was doing.
Poor Charles Bovary.
He could never know.
She had sold her soul to gain passage to a bankrupt future. A future so dire that no matter what she
bought, she could never redeem the soul she had sacrificed so easily. To redeem back a moment, no matter how atrophied,
she would go to her past. She could try
to capture that which had been of her
past. Tiny trinkets that served to titillate. For a moment… always for a moment.
Poor, poor Charles Bovary.
Poor, poor Charles Bovary.
And yes… poor Madame Bovary.
Oh yeah… happy Valentines day.
Poor Charles Bovary.
He looked at her.
In his hand the crinkled wax paper carrying the take out had grown
light. His other hand rested on the
steering wheel. A cold and lifeless
substance touched skin that so longed to feel the heat that radiated from her golden
pure skin. He had driven hundreds of
miles. He had come to the city to seal a
deal. That is what he told his
wife. His passenger meanwhile, why she had driven three. The business… ha… that had been easy. Now began the primordial hunt: the close game
of chess to seal a deal unspoken between the he and the she.
The longing for consummation of the desire building
grew between the two. He didn’t tell his
wife about this deal. Don’t worry… his
passenger hadn’t told her husband. Indeed,
the reason the food was takeout was her request. She could not be seen. Not with him.
Though three miles from her house, she could not afford detection. Not if the transaction was to take
place.
Her hangout hideout was located nearby the strip of restaurants. The shadow end parking lot of a distant store
that was only visited by the Stepford wives amalgamated during the day with
children in tow. This trek usually
followed a morning workout filled with brazen flirtations. Perhaps innocent, perhaps serious, always
playful. To be longed for, something,
anything to fill the void.
Why did she workout?
She knew she had to stay beautiful.
She had to stay forever young. To
hide the fact that her body was a victim of the slow decay of mortality, she
had to look good. This was as much for
her husband as well as the other ladies in the pack. Any sign of weakness would cause her to be
consumed.
The hideout served as an excellent locale for the
scurrying movements of shadow hands desperate in the search for hidden heat. An accepted dalliance. The Madame had gone there before. He didn’t know this. He could only concentrate on the growing
passion flowing within his blood. The
moment of exquisite pain, the painful labor that visited the birth of passion. Nervously he combed back his dusty blond hair
as the blood coursed through his veins.
When should he strike. When?
That’s what I think happened. At least that’s when Charles emerged from the
store. Poor simple fool. He wasn’t supposed to be in town. Not that weekend. Miles were supposed to separate the two. At least that’s the way it was supposed to
be.
Maybe if one
of the other stores in the similar chain had had his item he wouldn’t have been
at that store. Maybe. Maybe if he just gave up in his quest he
wouldn’t have seen. This whole thing was
just some play of consequence. It could
be that, but Charles never liked to think the Universe was that lazy or that
benevolent. He saw them.
The faded stream of light from the halogen lamp in
passing through the shade made the interior reflect blue. The blond of her hair became jaundiced. Shadows danced across half her face as if
shamed by what the other half was doing.
His heart collapsed. The game that she
had played with him, had been only that… a game. With the shock of realization Charles finally
figured it out: a half truth plus a half lie equaled nothing. It’s purely mathematical .5 + ‾.5 =
0. Everything she had said, everything
that he had supposedly caused in her was merely a lie. The renaissance was stillborn. Why?
Why? It was all he could
ask.
Poor Charles Bovary.
He could never know.
She had sold her soul to gain passage to a bankrupt future. A future so dire that no matter what she
bought, she could never redeem the soul she had sacrificed so easily. To redeem back a moment, no matter how atrophied,
she would go to her past. She could try
to capture that which had been of her
past. Tiny trinkets that served to titillate. For a moment… always for a moment.
Poor, poor Charles Bovary.
Poor, poor Charles Bovary.
And yes… poor Madame Bovary.
Oh yeah… happy Valentines day.
This work by the way was a modern retelling of Madame Bovary by Gustav
Flaubert.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
As the moon
Gypsy Kings Amor d'un dia
The
only sound
Allowed
by the sanctum
Was the
beating of their heats
Rhythm
simpatico as
The water
pressed
Gently
lapping at the shore
The rhythmic
push
Followed
by the pull
Gentle
in a determined
Continued
advance
Such
is the embrace
Of the
shore
Soft
and slow
As the
moon
Tenderly
bathed
The
dance of her children
The
branches of the trees
Brazen
bare
Offered
background unnoticed
Softly
he brushed back
Her hair
The
gentle caress of her cheek
Uncovering
the treasure of
Her
eyes
Soft
and slow
As the
moon
Tenderly
bathed
The
dance of her children
Could
she know
How
his soul was warmed
By the
light she held in her eyes
His
passion flared
At her
touch electric
In her
gentle press
A
confident lean of heated lips
Was greeted
by a voracious welcome
As
Soft
and slow
As the
moon
Tenderly
bathed
The
dance of her children
Monday, February 10, 2014
Just a moment longer
A Thousand Years - Aragorn and Arwen Music Video
Fairy tales are so necessary. They take the fantastical… the impossible and they make it all so actual—so real. They breathe life to dreams. They reassure. Perhaps they blind, but perhaps it is good that somethings at sometimes remain unseen. For as long as possible, let the magic live… at least for one more story. Just a moment longer the children cry… just one more story. Just one more break from the chaos. Reassure that it is all for something. Anything.
Just a moment longer.
One of my favorite tales is that of the love between Aragorn and Arwen.
He… well he someone who was not supposed to be, at least not the way he was. A castout, vagabond , little more than a cutpurse. That is how many looked upon him. Though from a lineage of kings… little more than a shadowy ranger. A gulag placed on the fringes of society. At times in the darkness it seemed that he may have been the only one who knew that the blood of kings flowed within him. He would not accept the label that others placed upon him. For he was Aragon—if he knew anything… it was he was Aragon.
Fearlessly he chased dragons to fight. Few knew however, that his drive to fight them arose from his fear that he might become one. He carried his pain within. A laden suffering which would have destroyed a lesser man. He found his solace in helping others. Loyal to a fault he would not be the one who would be found faithless. Forever believing that by helping them he might be able to earn his own elusive redemption. So it was, until he met her… Arwen.
He could, no… he would not, tell you too much about her. She was precious to him. In his darkest moments she was a light that shone. Pushing him forward, just a moment longer Aragorn. Just a moment longer. In the glory of her eyes laid the salvation he had so long sought. In the comfort of her arms he found the warm acceptance that he refused to accept from anyone else. In the shine of her face he found acceptance. In the warm folds of her heart he found completion. She held him in her hand As for her, Aragorn held her heart. As they can be so easily broken, this was a precious gift. At first sight she loved this man, a mortal, who could so tenderly touch. For him she gave up her elven birthright, but stood beside him as queen. Each meeting would end with the stabbing pain of separation, their eyes forever crying just a moment longer.
Just a moment longer.
One day there fairy tale might end… but until then, let the magic live… at least a moment longer.
Fairy tales are so necessary. They take the fantastical… the impossible and they make it all so actual—so real. They breathe life to dreams. They reassure. Perhaps they blind, but perhaps it is good that somethings at sometimes remain unseen. For as long as possible, let the magic live… at least for one more story. Just a moment longer the children cry… just one more story. Just one more break from the chaos. Reassure that it is all for something. Anything.
Just a moment longer.
One of my favorite tales is that of the love between Aragorn and Arwen.
He… well he someone who was not supposed to be, at least not the way he was. A castout, vagabond , little more than a cutpurse. That is how many looked upon him. Though from a lineage of kings… little more than a shadowy ranger. A gulag placed on the fringes of society. At times in the darkness it seemed that he may have been the only one who knew that the blood of kings flowed within him. He would not accept the label that others placed upon him. For he was Aragon—if he knew anything… it was he was Aragon.
Fearlessly he chased dragons to fight. Few knew however, that his drive to fight them arose from his fear that he might become one. He carried his pain within. A laden suffering which would have destroyed a lesser man. He found his solace in helping others. Loyal to a fault he would not be the one who would be found faithless. Forever believing that by helping them he might be able to earn his own elusive redemption. So it was, until he met her… Arwen.
He could, no… he would not, tell you too much about her. She was precious to him. In his darkest moments she was a light that shone. Pushing him forward, just a moment longer Aragorn. Just a moment longer. In the glory of her eyes laid the salvation he had so long sought. In the comfort of her arms he found the warm acceptance that he refused to accept from anyone else. In the shine of her face he found acceptance. In the warm folds of her heart he found completion. She held him in her hand As for her, Aragorn held her heart. As they can be so easily broken, this was a precious gift. At first sight she loved this man, a mortal, who could so tenderly touch. For him she gave up her elven birthright, but stood beside him as queen. Each meeting would end with the stabbing pain of separation, their eyes forever crying just a moment longer.
Just a moment longer.
One day there fairy tale might end… but until then, let the magic live… at least a moment longer.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
So it is every Saturday
Gipsy Kings Caminando por la calle
Pursed lips press
So it is every Saturday
At the Mercado
in San Antonio
She shops
While
The sent of flowers
Splash paint
On the canvass of her experience
Her smile
Washes the dust
from all who see
But mostly you
As she
Leaning forward
Lips pucker begun
Danger to be dodged
Or a prize to be won
As she walked
Softly sashay down
Gently bouncing hips dance
While eyes are drawn
Back to the laughing lips with
The challenge of their heated cry
Draw life from my succulence
And be willing
To be consumed
If only
To be born again
And so you dare to try
And so in glory die
Only to be born again
You pull
Her
Towards
You
Shoulders soft supple
In small bites
For yours
Pursed lips press
So it is every Saturday
At the Mercado
in San Antonio
She shops
While
The sent of flowers
Splash paint
On the canvass of her experience
Her smile
Washes the dust
from all who see
But mostly you
As she
Leaning forward
Lips pucker begun
Danger to be dodged
Or a prize to be won
As she walked
Softly sashay down
Gently bouncing hips dance
While eyes are drawn
Back to the laughing lips with
The challenge of their heated cry
Draw life from my succulence
And be willing
To be consumed
If only
To be born again
And so you dare to try
And so in glory die
Only to be born again
You pull
Her
Towards
You
Shoulders soft supple
Smile
Radiating heat
The pico that repaysIn small bites
For yours
Monday, February 3, 2014
Piercing
Mint Royale - from rusholme with love
Piercing—the stinging shock, followed by a spreading stunning numbness.
Piercing—the stinging shock, followed by a spreading stunning numbness.
I wonder if the frog felt the
sticking spines of the Scorpions feet as it scurried searching for the highest
ground. “Why?”, the feeble cry in the
waters slow rise. I wonder if he was
satisfied by her answer, “Because I am a Scorpion.” For the Scorpion it was merely repayment in
kind for a kindness. But he knew that.
I had called her. She
wasn’t supposed to answer. Not that I
had planned for at least in the lovely stratagem planned in my mind. She was protected by an audience. As I had done so much talking, I wanted to
listen. So listen I did. She
found safety in the refuge of common themes.
I continued to listen. That was her
refuge. Give someone a mask, and you can
get to the truth, albeit in tiny tendrils.
Soft presses into revelations
were made. Like wounded animals the soft
tuning circle of socialization had begun.
I gave her opportunities to draw back, she gave me openings to advance. But the looping dance remained. Fear ruled the day. We danced around the secret and supposed
while the secret remained in the middle and knows.
But it was so good to hear her
again, just about the everyday. No
epic. No swathing controversy… just
her. Her gentle cooing laugh that I had
heard so many times. With those in
audience I didn’t press. I held
back. At the end, I dropped the
ball. I wanted to ask her to establish a
communication. As friends, yes, but even
more… me as me, and her as her. But
maybe that was too much. I decided that
I would call her the next day to set up a communiqué. As friends were I would meet her as nothing
more than me, and she would meet me as nothing more than she. At least that was the plan.
The next day she made me feel
young again.
I was young again. Not the kind happens when things ‘click.’ Where the body is made to feel as if it is
precious—sinew strong and flesh tight.
Where the breath of life oozes out of every pore. Nope… it wasn’t that way. Rather it was a return to where all I could feel was a…
Piercing—the stinging shock,
followed by a spreading stunning numbness.
There she was. Surrounded by her usual suspects. Panting, clamoring, anything for a look—anything
for her smile. The promise of a touch,
perhaps a slight flash of a smile or maybe even more, maybe. Just maybe.
She made a living off of selling promises and if the promise could be
believed the deal would be sealed. Friends,
are fun while the money lasts. Beauty
seduces, until looks fade. And then what
does she have… only herself, who she
is. Though that was what was the key to that which was most precious about her... to be that vulnerable... that scares the hell out of
her. Because I have seen that side and I know it is why I scare the hell out of her.
But I digress.
But I digress.
Viewing the sight, my body was
filled with rage. Vision closed to only a
tunnel. I am not sure if she believed I
wouldn’t see… or if she just didn’t care.
No shackles are as bitter than those we forge for ourselves. I was speechless… breathless…disgusted.
She liked to dance. In half-lit halls, her sultry moves seduced
as long as she kept her eyes closed. In
rhythm to the movement her body would beckon.
Partners would emerge from the shadows to join her dance. The bump, the grind, the passing trace could
all be dismissed as merely a function of the dance—as long as she kept her eyes
closed. With a twisting turn she would
engage another partner. She could remain
elusive. As long as her eyes remained
closed the dance could continue uninterrupted.
The only problem is that when
we danced—she opened her eyes. I saw
her. In her movements she had grown to
tust. The dance had felt too good. She let her mask slip. I saw her naked. Scars and all. The hidden, hurt little girl. Never able to see her own beauty, taught to
distrust her own body. Believing that
she could never be accepted for who she was.
Success could only be gained in a silent subterfuge in which she slowly
sold off her soul. That which is the
most precious about her… herself… couldn’t be worth anything. Could it?
Piercing—the stinging shock,
followed by a spreading stunning numbness.
I wonder if the frog felt the
sticking spines of the Scorpions feet as it scurried searching for the highest
ground. “Why?”, the feeble cry in the
waters slow rise. I wonder if he was
satisfied by her answer, “Because I am a Scorpion.” For the Scorpion it was merely repayment in
kind for a kindness. But he knew that.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
Breathless
U2 One acoustic
A Soft whisper
Never doubt
The flowing fire brazen raging in your eyes
As you talk
Or laugh
The sweet cooing laugh
Bewitching in beauty
Fuming in form
While her cunning wit
Keeps her one step ahead
Of all who pursue
Breathless… and
As breathless
They leave smiling
So glad for the chase
For the glimpse
Of her slight supple form
That beckons
Bewitches
If one could only capture
To caress
To talk
To heal
Yet leaving just to guess
While
A full gentle hope
Resides in lips
Crying the color red in a
Mona Lisa smile
Beckon
Just below
Piercing eyes laden
Yet smiling
Trusting
Waiting
Longing
Filled
While a the tender trace along her face
End at her ear
To present the warming soft whisper
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