Monday, September 25, 2006

Fare thee well, old friend~ think of me in that reflection

It's always confusing to me... is a goodbye the end of a story, or the beginning of another one? Tonight I will drink to the latter thought and hope that my shadow will always loom, even in the darkest of nights.

I believe in recompense, Old School style. I hate that I have learned to be cultured, dare I say classy? Toward that end, a song to send an old friend on his way. I will do my best to be around to collect the debt he owes me, and I'll skip the interest that accrues. Betrayal is funny that way~

This time, you have to face your future
Although it’s just a dusty road
It’s clear that backing down don’t suit you
I’d hate, to break your sacred code
People, along for the ride
High noon, getting closer

I think you’ll find, everybody loves a loser
So you’ll be fine, you won’t be lonely long
I think you’ll find, everybody loves a loser
So you’ll be fine, you won’t be lonely long

I see, you need a trial of fire
A coward would wisely walk away
Help them, help us bide your time
Hideouts get discovered

I think you’ll find, everybody loves a loser
So you’ll be fine, you won’t be lonely long
I think you’ll find, everybody loves a loser
So you’ll be fine, you won’t be lonely long

I think you’ll find, everybody loves a loser
So you’ll be fine, you won’t be lonely long
I think you’ll find, everybody loves a loser
So you’ll be fine, you won’t be lonely long

Morecheeba - Everybody Loves a Loser

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

easy adverisity and your abyss

November is my desolation, the pallette of greys and browns frame a forgotten memory. Was it here that your hand held my neck so lightly at first, and then so firmly, as you pushed me into your abyss with the certainty of the Succubus' whim?

A willing victim is no victim afterall.

The unclothed trees shiver to mock my realization, and those deep brown eyes are still filled with all the eddies that warned me away...

had I listened.

The wind slices like the invisible hand of separation, blowing nothingness into the fading day. It is so cold,

so cold.

How happy I was if I could forget
Emily Dickinson

How happy I was if I could forget
To remember how sad I am
Would be an easy adversity
But the recollecting of Bloom
Keeps making November difficult
Till I who was almost bold
Lose my way like a little Child
And perish of the cold.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Love, love is a verb...

The taste of cumin fresh on my tongue, and the memories crash onto the floor with my dropped fork. Does my tablemate sense my sudden shift..?

How could she know that now I only taste the stolen moments of you on my mouth, my fingers? Retrieving the errant fork, it's as cool as your heart seems now.

I push the plate away, and smile at the one across from me...

(just as I have done with her, just as you've done with me)

The Taxi -Amy Lowell

When I go away from you
The world beats dead
Like a slackened drum.
I call out for you against the jutted stars
And shout into the ridges of the wind.
Streets coming fast,
One after the other,
Wedge you away from me,
And the lamps of the city prick my eyes
So that I can no longer see your face.
Why should I leave you,
To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?

Thursday, May 12, 2005

The Hunger...

never abates, is never satisfied.

I contemplated the brilliance of Starry Night all evening, and found Blake's Tyger blinking back at me through my sleepless window. Where do all those cars go so late,

so early?

I wonder if they take their occupants to the hot and melty reunion I so often dream of when I think of you...

yes, I dream of melting into you.

Love Sonnet XI
Pablo Neruda

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands

Is there ever a moment you are not with me..?

Perhaps the greatest price, the ultimate penance for my crime is to be exactly where I remain. Some days are easy, and the underlying friction is smoothed by fleeting thoughts of you, your smell and that infectious laugh. Those delicate fingers, that inviting slippery warm mouth... those sparkling deep brown eyes. Yes, on those days it is easy to be the Grey Man and cruise through this paltry existence, issuing my pleasantries and acting engaged... interested.

The bad days are when the fleeting thoughts pervade every moment, color every thought with the deep and opulent purple I see, when I remember what our love tasted like. Like an amputee, I feel the ghost of your skin and smell the aura of your scent all over my aching body. Sleep is elusive on the nights that punctuate a break in that pain... and I always wake up, startled and sweating in those Proustian hours of twilight. There are no madeleines at the bedside, not that eating them would bring me any closer to you anyway. No, there is only the body with legs akimbo next to me... the cool moonlight casting the indifferent shade I feel back at me, from those lifeless limbs.

I woke again this morning to the rain and thought of you... everything seems to have a violet cast to it. I know now that EE would understand, would want to hear about my journey to your mythic unknown.

[somewhere i have never travelled]
ee cummings

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands

Friday, March 18, 2005

Be my heater, be my lover...

Sliding my hands up your shirt as I pressed you into the wall, I felt your sigh with my entire body.

The hall was so dark, and the moment so perfect

your mouth open, wet

willing me into you.

I could still taste you, after we returned to the table and your scent clung to me like my hidden lust shrouds my every thought, every action.

Cold Light

Hot Night

be my heater be my lover and we could do it to each other

cold light

hot night

be my heater be my lover and we could do it to each other

go go go

Ride daddy ride
ride out the tide
i'd rather die
then say goodbye
and watch you

gogo go go

ride daddy ride
ride out the tide
i'd rather die
then say goodbye
and watch you

gogo go go

cold light
hot night

be my heater be my loverand we could do it to each other
yeah we could do it to each other

well like a sister and a brother

go go gogo go go.......

ride momma ride
ride out the tide
i'd rather die
then say goodbye
and watch you

gogo go go

yeah yeah yeahs - cold light

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

Right Here, Right Now (or Fat Boy Slim is Fucking in Heaven)

Speaking in metaphor always help one hide behind words and their allusions, images. The moment I begin to speak directly is usually the moment I know trouble is on the way.

Lately, it has occurred to me that I am simply addicted to Women in general. It can begin with a whiff of their scent, a casual look over their shoulder... or simply the way they move their hands while deep in conversation. The latter may have something to do with my fetish for mouths -- I am a complete fool for a luscious and dark set of lips, and the bigger the mouth, the better. Well, and then I will need to admit I have a thing for fingernails too... and eyes, the kind that are big n' deep and dark, offset by pretty lashes that dance to laughs and smiles.

Necks, well I suppose I should fess up here too. Nothing like a nice slender one, all that creamy inviting skin, framed by collar bones that define the border between public appreciation and the kinds of moments and sights I am most interested in. Add any kind of cleavage to round out this package and we have the mix for instantaneous doom... well, at least we'll assume the fuse has been lit.

I have to skip any extended discussion about other physical attributes for the moment. It would take more time than I have available to properly cover the things that drive me crazy about women's asses, their legs, their feet. I can't really even begin to scratch the surface about hair or breasts... just as any discussion of tummies, whether flat or rounded, hip bones, and inner thighs would require a time investment unavailable to me for the rest of my life. I would much rather put that time to good use, worshipping all these things instead of discussing them on a keyboard. I won't rule out these types of appraisals as pillow talk, but those are only available on a 'first come, second come, third come, and more if you'd like' pillow talk kind of basis.

You will notice I seem to have overlooked personality, and that is for a very good reason. Personality is always a plus, but not absolutely necessary, especially when my biggest weakness is a sassy-girl. Intellect is assumed, for to be truly sassy one must be witty, and to be witty one must be confident enough to employ these charms. Did I say 'confident?' Ahem, this may be a good time to end my little stream of consciousness before I confess that Sassy Women are my ultimate downfall,

or try to rationalize that they are liberating..?

I might try to convince you of the latter, especially when in the dark hours of the morning as my conscience flutters in that troublesome way. The nagging one, when I recall stolen moments with someone else's wife, or lover. The passionate kisses, the scramble to posses one another's souls, the slick and burning flesh mingled in infidelity and uncontrollable lust. I imagine the smell of my lovers betrays me as much as my pounding heart, the rhythmic thump in my neck.

And what wouldn't I give to have all of them again, as I watch the snowflakes swirl in eddies past my troubled early morning window..?

I would trade them all to have just one more moment with the Sassy Girl who still governs my universe, my every waking moment, my every breath.

How I long to look in those deep dark eyes and tell her so, to breathe her scent, to hold her gaze as she holds my heart.