That Which You Seek

She spreads her legs and the shattered world disappears into her precious flower, opening and expanding, flowing out like the sweet milk of celestial bodies. Spinning light and darkness into eternity.

Remember that sunlight emerges, cut with boundaries, slicing, selecting sides. Piece by piece, dissected.

You contemplate duality. You run your fingers along her neck. She offers it to you.

You recall a time you felt most ashamed. You kneel your naked knees to the edge and expose yourself, raw, before the wolves. They smell your slow blood, you need the hot pierce of teeth.

Show me the places where you make yourself break.

Remember we design our own pain.

May I lick you back together. Or would you bleed yet remain the same.

May I part your ribs and tear you all apart for the cruelty of it. Remember that darkness knows no boundaries at all, only horizon after horizon of endless invisible cloud.

When you reach for me, I respond in kind. Your touch graces me, strokes the paradise beneath my skin. Little lights are coming on all over the globe, an electric buzzing dawn. Bodies falling like dominoes into the abyss.

I close my eyes against your palm, request your instruction. Appear in places where, to the outside world, we no longer exist.

I press my lips to the frost upon the window pane as the snow comes down soft, pristine. Taste the heat at the center of the cold. Contemplate ecstasy, stimulate hurt. I suck your fear and tongue your fantasy.

Cheap Thrills

Dried brown leaves chase each other in circles along the sides of the street, you can hear them scratch the pavement as they scuttle. As I watch the peach clouds move in and the white hot sun climb higher and higher in the pale blue sky, I am filled with a familiar feeling of dangling on the edge of dread and/or excitement. Dread because I have a toothache and I just know fixing it is gonna be bad news for all of us involved. Excitement for no good reason but all I can tell you is anxiety manifests itself in strange ways. Sometimes it feels like anticipation and though you aren’t sure if that is good or bad, it doesn’t much matter because your mind is off deciding things on its own again while your body is left behind with the caffeinated jitters.

Checking media is not helpful except in the sense that feeding off of the addiction to infotainment allows you to blend in with the rest of the adorable fools around you which, admittedly, is sometimes a welcome escape from being swallowed whole by the gaping void of your own inner existence, mangled and marred as it is by years spent overthinking every last goddamn detail of every last goddamn thing.

The world has become entirely impossible, one crisis after another and to be honest I’m simply exhausted at the thought of another day spent beating back against what hurts. I thought about dying my hair even though everybody tells me not to, just because I can and it’s more fun and less unsettling than clawing one’s own eyes out, no? As I envision it, it would come out a beautiful rosegold-blonde color. It would shimmer and shine in the autumn moonlight as a forest fairy’s would as she flits and flutters all about the moss-covered forest floor and it would get him off when I go down on him because it’d be like fucking a new girl or cheating on the one he’s got. Go ahead and judge, but a thrill’s a thrill and you take what you can get your hands on these days.

But you see, people do not understand. The more they tell you not to make a move, the more making a move consumes your every thought. The harder they warn you about the dangers of yourself, the harder you lean into the danger and defend it with everything you have. It’s really not complicated, but when was the last time you let a simple thing come easy?

Bone Crush

I remember my first kiss mostly because I didn’t want it but he did and so I decided I had no choice, which is right there where the sickness flowers and lives inside of you like a low grade fever forever. Or until you claim it, beat it back. Pin its wings and place it in a jar on a shelf in a room you refuse to enter ever again which makes things tricky because the room is in the haunted house that is you. Lips and fingers, bodies and doors. You learn ways to unlearn yourself in the hopes you will one day disappear. It’s all an act, of course, nobody really wants to be erased or at least I can’t imagine life would want life to live that way, but God’s a train run off the tracks of your bones long ago.

There is a hollowness which has become sacred to you and you could swear it smells like home, its vacancy warm as fireglow, like magic, like a secret you have to keep to protect yourself and those around you from seeing you as you really are. What if you have claws instead of wings, or worse what if you have both. Human love is only as enchanting as humanity can be and so much tenderness has sunk into the angry sea as it is, along with the toxins and residue of apathy and gloom.

As I make my way up a hill which cuts through and along a small old cemetery, my heavy boots push the colorful bed of leaves around in the dirt. When the wind presses against me in earnest, I pull up the collar of my wool coat, light a cigarette and blow smoke high into the autumn air, it billows and swirls against the pink sunset sky. In my mind, almost adorable in its seemingly endless capacity for delusion, I am Camus and my entire life is lived out minute by minute, frame by frame, in grainy black and white. Meme culture. Counter culture. Noir and scotch. Cults of personality. The fetish of annihilation.

The clouds this evening are absolutely wicked, so deeply gray they nearly blackout the already fading electric rays of auburn light. I think about the woman with the rich auburn hair online modeling fine lingerie, her perfect ivory skin, curves like waves on a glistening ocean, eyes like crystal blue heaven. I think about the philosophers and poets who have come before us and the tiny slivers of wisdom they have handed on to us like passing notes through the invisible veil, taking swipes at meaning, dangling enlightenment in front of us like it was hung on a rope.

It’s all an act, of course. Every single move we make and breath we take, an act of surrender, desperation, hope, absurdity. Acting like we have any kind of control, the mass of all the universe spinning in circles in our tiny hands. Acting like we would know ourselves if we ever dared to meet ourselves at all.

My Body and Your Body

When you look at me can you see the earth on fire in the sunset hills, the end of this wretched world and the beginning of a new one. My head is split in two, angel, please close the blinds. It must have been the whiskey and cigarettes that went down like heaven as we talked and sang and laughed our way through the spiced autumn night. I remember the chill on my skin, the moon glow and the dirty jokes. The way your thumb coaxed my mouth. Hats and coats on the floor, you and I naked beneath the soft white sheets. Please wrap another blanket over us and tell me it’ll all be okay. When I spread myself over you I am filled with a radiant warmth I never want to lose, even though I know all good things will turn again to dust on the broken wings of a time gone by. Sunlight crawls muted through the window which overlooks the brightest orange and golden trees. Funny how vibrant is the dying season. A blackbird soars elegant against a snowy clouded sky. And for right now, silence lays her head down next to us. Quiet sighs sliding smooth along the water glass. My body and your body, melting like teardrops into the steel gray afternoon.

Adult Entertainment

As autumn leaves fall silently in the open air, the sky darkens to a deep metal gray as the wind and rain move in on their own rowdy, wet, sinister terms. Just yesterday I had this thought about what my life would have been like if I had noticed I was beautiful back when I was but youth, being so shakily timid in her wide wandering mind and her tight sparkling body, barely recognizes itself in the mirror let alone in its own fragile hands. I feel very strongly that I must get away, from what I just couldn’t tell you. My life, I think. Not my blood, mind you, I’m not talking about cutting off my own circulation or any of that shit. The story goes like this: I want to be alive and that seems to be the trouble with me. I seem to want to experience more and this makes me a rattle-y inconvenience to the rest of the world which would prefer if I just quiet down and quit being so fickle and thoughtful and nuanced. Perhaps it’s that I’ve just had too much coffee and chocolate for breakfast or perhaps it’s the way the splashing sound of heaving cold rain pelts the fiery red maple leaves just outside of my open window but something in the cells of my being is buzzing with a kind of sensation somewhere between panicked agitation and heart-pounding lust. I’ve had my period for the past few days and so we’ve not had sex because I am weird about that but now I’m horny af and all I can think about is kneeling in a darkened bedroom, taking his gorgeous cock into my mouth and worshipping like a woman desperate with a thirsty kind of sweet admiration. I know what you’re thinking. The window shouldn’t be open because the rain water is now pooling on the hardwood floor and my daydreaming ignorance will cause it to warp, but I meant to tell you that also I’m smoking and trying to blow most of it outside for what it’s worth which is really very little.

Tell Me Where (audio)

I watch you reading in dim light by the fireplace, whiskey in hand, cigar burning slow and fragrant. I light my cigarette and sit by myself out on the back patio fucking around on my phone for a bit before I slide it back in my pocket and steal glimpses of you through the floor-to-ceiling window. A rough wind disrupts the silence of the night and a tornado of dried leaves swirls around me in the open air. After all this time you have become a home to me, one I swear I never wanted, yet here we are making a go at us day after day after year after year. Watching you read is a sort of secret high. I want to crawl into your mind and slither through each and every thought you have, like a snake sliding smooth on its belly in the dirt toward its prey. I want to feel your pleasure as you make connections in your brain. How the machinery of the universal mind clicks forward inside your every synapse. There is something about intellect that arouses all my senses, makes my body ache and yearn for touch as though touch itself were a form of higher intelligence. If done right, it is. With skill, attention, care, tenderness, earnestness, need. Emotion made tangible. Edible. I want your eyes to take me in as you teach me about the darkness that is the unknown parts of myself surfacing, shy, soft, alive. Drink me into your heightened awareness of this big bad world. Collect me piece by piece the way you collect dazzling embers of hot burning insight. Open up your smooth ripe mouth and make me feel what I am made of. Please speak the words. Please tell me exactly where I belong because all my life I have been on the outside trying to get in.

Cigarettes and Orange Juice (audio)

The street is quiet as purple evening skies overtake the neighborhood. Everybody is pissed about the time change and the early dark, it seems, except for me. Somehow it all just feels dreamier when there is smoke in the cold air and the stars glisten clear and bright in the deep blue heavens.

I take a drag of my cigarette and blow out the smoke in a startled huff when a huge ass dog suddenly barks like a foaming junkyard maniac as I stroll past his six foot high chain link fence. I once heard the dog these people had before this one pinned the lady of the house to the kitchen floor one cold winter morning, snarling and threatening to maul her face off before the monster-sized man of the house pried it off of her. They put that one down and acquired another of the exact same breed. How insane people are, getting these massive animal creatures that turn on them out of no where over a bowl of corn flakes and orange juice or whatever.

As I round the corner where the lawns are especially sprawling and well manicured, the face of a crooked plastic jack-o-lantern which is nestled into a leaf-covered bush comes to life, its sinister orange glow grins a wicked grin and laughs aloud at me. There is something eerie, or maybe just weirdly unsettling, about decorations laying around deflated and gloomy after the holiday itself is over. Like they are trying to invoke a thing which seemed so very real before it turned in its grave and vanished into history. It leaves a stale taste in your mouth to think about how another entire year will have to pass before you experience that festival again.

How much can happen in one year, how much can change. You can put your whole spirit into something but eventually it will pass because it has to. That is the way of things and there is nothing much one can do about it. When I arrive back home, the man of my house hands me a glass of wine and asks me how my day was. Just another day, I want to say. Just another day not over fast enough and gone up in smoke far too soon.

How Will You Know

You don’t just write what you are thinking because how in the world can you trust that fickle jumpy mind of yours. You take the cup and drink the wine. You gaze into the centerfolds of a lush full rose. You listen to what it is unbuttoning inside of you. The particular silences which whisper to each other for all of eternity. Imperceptible to those who fixate on the earthly plane. There are places inside of you where you ache to unravel. To open, swell, billow. Are they worthy, you ask yourself as you gaze into the void. For such a long time now I have thought the answers would come to me if I could just read all the books, ask all the questions, follow the right people. But the stars continue to explode inside of my veins and move their dead energy through me long after they have been blown out like candles with no where left to go, nothing left to do but to disappear. I have become a kind of living after life projected on a vacant wall and trapped inside of myself. They will tell you to let what no longer serves you wither and shrivel up but what do you do with so much death you now carry? Where is it we are supposed to bury the selves we must discard? When I reach for the words they vanish through my fingertips. They melt upon my tongue and it only makes me thirsty for more. The trouble with writers is we don’t often understand when or if we are at the end. If we want it to be over and if we have any say in the matter in any case. We chase the ending like mad dogs but how unprepared we are to find ourselves staring down the barrel of the gun which is a brand new beginning.

What Makes You Bad (audio)

I place myself into the silence like sinking into the bath. Somewhere inside of me exists the void. I close my eyes and try not to think about it so it becomes my only thought. This is the hot searing burden of the heart to which the soul gave birth many moons ago. How often do you change course? If you had a map of all the stars could you find your way home in the dark? How would you know when you got there? How would you recognize your own arrival at the front entrance to your personal self?

I know nobody thinks about these things or at least very few or maybe everybody does but some bury it or cover it over with screen time or whatever. Yesterday I saw an ad for a razor blade so fine it is meant to be used to slough off the first layer of skin on your face. Your face. We are now shaving our faces as though there were not a million other activities to be performed in a given day.

I’m sick to death of looking at women altering their bodies. Doing weird shit to themselves while smiling so glowy white my eyes tear up just trying to watch.

I saw an app which will literally turn your image into a plastic looking doll or ‘model.’ Like the Barbie dolls I had as a kid (and for the record I adored tbh I mean the sheer satisfaction of slipping a tiny plastic hot pink high heel onto that tiny perfect plastic shapely foot was enough to make you think I wanted to be Prince Charming himself when I finally grew up enough to know what the hell was going on).

But there is something sinister in the way girls are encouraged to be bits of pieces, each one ‘perfected’ in its own tiny test tube and then glued back to the rest of the bits to make one doll. It’s so fucked up. What that does to you on the inside is fragment you, pull you apart in all directions and then forces you to look back at yourself without letting yourself see the stretch marks, cuts, and distortions. What a clever way to waste all of our goddamn time.

But I digress.

Exhausted of the minute by minute of a world which seeks to crush the living light out of women and replace it with serums, creams, and injections, I run an actual hot bath and lower my body into the steamy lavender water. They fuck with your dignity and mess with your power. They tempt you and lure you and break you clean straight through. And you hold yourself together so tight and so pretty and so ridiculous good until you realize good is something they made up and sold to you to make them cash and you useless. Good is what makes you want to be bad in the end.

What You Said to Me (audio)

Behind the shade of billowed curtain I discover traces of you in whispers on the cold November wind. They do not know me here. They do not understand me the way that you do and I say that having offered them chance after chance.

Please let me come away with you. You don’t even have to tell me where we are going, I think I already know. A place of darkness where fear sits with fear, recoiling from one another, chill of night and bitterness upon a broken wing.

Alive light. Alive light.

I clutch at you with golden claw, pull the blood from my own heart to fill you full of divine creation. When he kisses my mouth he believes in love and I am crumbling down from the high of desperation for my former self.

I don’t need him anymore and this is a pain I will carry alone inside of my rib/cage. I only need the silence. I want only the cool light of blue morning cut along the naked curve of my back.

I miss you, please return.

I miss the way we used to be before I ever knew you existed in the palms of my tired empty hands. Eyes black as midnight. Prismatic dilation.

Love should be an opening. Love should be a word which expands outward and never stops. Not in this place. In this place love is spat out like saliva, cigarettes and ash.

I close the door, I light the candles, I pace in a circle, round and around, slowly, deliberately unwinding the clock. I remember exactly what you said to me: Be very careful what you let yourself believe.

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