It won’t matter in the end, not as much as you think it will anyway. But what do I know, I’ve not yet been. All of these voices, all of these people, telling you what to do and how to be, what makes you trust them more than you trust yourself? How’d the bar get set so low for what matters and what doesn’t?
Or maybe it’s the opposite problem. Somewhere underneath the scuttled noise of your arrogance or theirs, the bar got set so impossibly, irretrievably high that even to reach it became nothing more than the failure to clear it all together. We fear the fall and we fear the fear to take the leap in any case. Maybe that’s why you trust them. At least then they can’t peg any of this on you.
When I light the cigarette I’m not myself. When I swallow the gin I am more magic than sin. When you speak at me like you think you’re gonna teach me something I don’t already know, I spit on the concrete sidewalk and twist my thick heel against the stones. You don’t take the time to think it through. You take half the time it takes to make any sense at all and I wish somehow inside I could separate my frustrations from the wild tentacles of your charm. I wish I could untangle your endless wandering words from the silence I so desperately want to drown into in my own deep dark soul.
For all the “man-made” advances we congratulate ourselves for making in technology or science or war, an erosion takes place little by little within us collectively. I feel it in the pit of my stomach and try to numb it with all the wrong things. Looking into your eyes, I see blue skies which never end and twisted feelings which somehow always do. I’m unsure if I want to pleasure you or tear you apart piece by piece. Perhaps a little bit of both because what good is one without the other.
You’ve seen it before, you’ve felt it in places you’d rather not admit to anyone. The sweet, sweet anguish of destruction in the palm of your very own trembling hands.
In a dream, she was soft as a feather as her bare breasts brushed against the open heat of my mouth. She gives me a tiny book of matches with a darkened navy washed image on the front. I cannot recall what it was exactly, a typewriter maybe or a peacock, some wild, exotic, beautiful thing. We blew clouds of smoke into the velvet drapery and plush carpeting. We slid our fragile hands all over each others’ smooth pale skin. When her eyes flashed like fire on water, mine did the same in response, I could feel it. No words only laughter, only touch. The liquid of the dream giving way to pure ocean glow like crystal in sunlight, the soft hazy burn of the salt of desire.
I could not tell you where my dreams come from and I cannot tell you where any of the folds of my mind begin or end. What they will expect of you are answers you cannot give. Don’t even try. What they will try to trick you into spilling are the secrets you were meant to keep all to yourself. How many kisses are apologies planted right square in your dying mouth? It gets complicated like that, but mostly because we set it up to be.
2 Replies to “Some Unholy War”
Amazing, isn’t it? How much we are capable of: construction, destruction. The good and the bad become such compelling needs that we aren’t even able anymore to recognize which is which. So long as we are doing, doing, and doing in a way that impresses and impacts. I find myself asking of those around me: does she even know the impact her words have upon me? Build up, break down, build up, break down as blood flows and tears fall and hands tremble. And the easiest thing of all–to sit quietly and just be–seems beyond our grasp. And she wonders why I do not talk sometimes. Why am I so quiet. In my mind there is a forest. I do not know how wide it extends; I don’t care. It’s just there, and I am there, and I remove my clothes and walk through it, feeling so deeply refreshed by the scent of the trees and leaves and the soil beneath my feet, and when I reach the stream that winds its way through the trees, I walk into it and become water, and the finest sexual pleasure I could imagine at that moment is to wrap my liquid body around the earth, caressing the stones, thinking of nothing. Just flowing, flowing. … I’m sorry, Allison, I’ve meandered completely away from your writing, which I sat down to comment on. Somehow what you write so often takes me on these journeys away this screen in front of me, carried away by your words.
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You need not be sorry, dearest George. I am so grateful my words can take you to your internal forest. I have mine, too, in fact I have written so nearly what you say here myself somewhere, I will find it, perhaps a year ago or more, something about a nymph or fairy, the image I chose for that piece was a woman in a beautiful cloak straddling a log over a stream, this I remember vividly…it was about many things but prominent among them was the sexual pleasure of caressing rocks, stones, water, earth. I am not a religious believer of any kind, but paganism, witchcraft, the sensuousness and sumptuousness of nature, these things pulse in my veins as sure as I am here to speak of all of it. I can tell these elements are alive very much inside of you, electric, curious, burning. There is an earnestness to the longing we feel. It is dark, it is honest and therefore a mess, dirty as soil is, but thereby rich and fertile as well. Raw and completely unbothered by morality or rules. We have all been so beaten and crippled under the rules, what is allowed to be expressed, what is forbidden, what is beautiful what is ugly. Ah, see, now you have me wandering away from both of us and where we began, this seems to happen. I am so grateful for your connection and willingness to follow and play among my words.