Pleasure Cage

Darkness rolls in overhead, and I am hopeful. They have been promising rain for days but, so far nothing. This day, though, is different. The air all around is thick with the smell of it, the muggy scent of wormy earth and lemongrass wind. All that is missing is the fire but that’s not out there, it’s in here. In me.

The rain water balances my insides, cools my burning, wets my heat.

I dim the lights, pour tea with honey, and pull a single tarot card, which I do daily as part of my spiritual ritual. It doesn’t always ‘work’ but I don’t know what that even really means except to say that some days it doesn’t resonate. Sometimes the cards and I are at odds and I have to remind myself that I am not so ordered, so simple as a deck of cards, no matter how thorough they may appear to be. No matter how organized or random, I am even more exponentially so. More organized. More random.

I ponder the intricacies of the human organism.

The exact weight and design of the internal organs.

How they fit together in a slick stacked pile.

The card I turn over is The Devil. Fifteenth of the Major Arcana.

The Devil resonates fiercely and exactly, like the precision of the sting of a cut on the blade. Immediately sliding parallel with every vein, every artery in my system, everything which flows into and out of the heart.

The Devil rules the underworld where there is eternal darkness.

Finally. Finally, the benevolent, merciful, enveloping dark. Finally, I am alone with it.

I watch for the whiteness of curling bone around black eyes. I sense the liquid silk pleasure of the void. Here is the life of the hallowed shadow, here are the hands of the wicked: slender, long. My hands and all which they have touched, harmed, caressed, stolen, violated, destroyed. My hands and all they have done to soothe my own aching body. All they have done to dismantle my mind.

The darkness is sensual, forbidden, tempting. Looming. It is all I want inside of me. I light a candle and summon it forward, unafraid. Wanting.

The rain moves in as I close my eyes. I listen to the hypnotic sound of it. Gratitude. Relief. I want to be taken into that place which quivers and trembles. I feel him now, his mouth of soft crimson at the base of my neck; the ecstasy of my self made sacrifice, of my aroused surrender. In the mirror I observe my own reflection: pale, detached. I seek the fire in the cave of my being, I press my swelling emotion against the walls of its womb. I am the host and the parasite, the mother and the strain of her milk; the burden of the infant and the blind fear of its infinite scream.

Madness is nothingness, this is why it echoes into itself.

During my meditation, there is an internal struggle against binding forces. We are killed by love and killed by no love. We are abused by fear and abused by no fear. We are beyond all of it, and encompass it. The Devil liberates by showing us ourselves from all sides, showing us the illusion of the separation of sides.

Fix your eyes. All light contains within it darkness. Within all darkness, light.

In a kind of ethereal trance, I lay back upon the floor as my beloved Demon pulls me close, whispers to me softly, seductively. With him I am serene, supple, yielding. Beautiful. He requires of me only that I show him everything.

I swallow his poison, taste his succulent death on my skin. Let him devour me whole.

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Photo by Richard Jaimes

 

 

Secrets In Her Garden

Unsure of the best way to slip out unnoticed, I take a door that looks rather hidden in shadow and open it to find you smoking a cigarette behind the bar. The air is bracing and the smell of snow threatens ever so slightly off in the distance. My eyes catch yours in a flush of surprise recognition. I’m glad to see you but unsure of your feelings toward me, since last we were together I was making out with your girlfriend in a parking lot as you watched. Exchanging pleasantries in somewhat awkward fashion, I notice that the way you look at me almost seems tender as you offer me a smoke and I accept. I’ve had a few whiskeys and my insides are glowing with the spice of the stuff as the stars in the heavens begin to be covered over by dark gray clouds, one by little beaming one. The girl you’re with, is she the one? Do you love her or are you just fooling around? You answer in the vaguest of manners, essentially telling me you are both in it for kicks but there is something special there, too, though love is perhaps too heavy a term for who can really ever be sure. The more you tell me the more I want more. It turns you on, the way I am when I am with her. It excites her, too, and she wants more of the way I kiss. You smile and something inside me melts a little, slides toward the gravitational pull of your devilish charm. You look like freedom but the kind that feels intimate instead of expansive. There is a wilderness inside of you that calls to me in the same way as my own. The same way as hers. To be explored. To be naked within. To be worshiped and warmed. Savoring my final drag in a lengthy dramatic exhale, I lean my back against the brick side of the building as a stream of bright white smoke lifts, widens, and slowly disappears. Sensing my curiosity, you step into me close, cup my chin in your hand and trace my glossy bottom lip with your thumb. The pressure releases the faint sweet scent of strawberries. It takes every ounce of my weakening self control not to bite that thumb hard, take its beautiful thickness into my hot wet mouth and suck on the taste of your bare skin. But before I can even utter a ragged sigh, you slide your fingers down my neck like petting an animal, look at me clear as the cold night air, and ask me to meet up again sometime. Just the three of us.

All That She Wants

There’s a game we play with ourselves. The game is called denial and when we become quite good at the game we use it more liberally. It becomes as a salve, a soothing balm for slathering over the rough patches of our lives we don’t seem to know exactly how to handle. I don’t get too close because I don’t trust you because I know deep down you don’t even trust yourself. No way to live, but what’s the alternative? The truth hurts as does reality so better to run away inside that fantastic mind of yours and pull something shimmering from the discarded rubble. You have it in you, you just weren’t allowed to know it because nothing is more important to capitalism than distracting you, prying your attention away from the flutters in your stomach which beg you to resurrect your most magnificent parts and turning toward the outside world worrying what the others will think of you for having such petty dreams. Ah the mighty American consumer, not unlike taking a bite of the proverbial Apple iPad in the Garden of Eden, we are made to realize we are naked without all of our gadgets and things and consequentially shamed for it. Just the thought of all this nonsense plummets me to the bottom of a crisp bottle of white wine, the very liquid silk which simultaneously soothes and destroys.

Lying half dressed on the backseat of his car, she pulls her panties down as his eyes grow wide with mesmerized lust. They are young, as clueless as they are gorgeous, smooth skin a glow in the moonlight shining straight through the passenger side window and bathing their pulsing bodies in pale white light. Breathing heavy and shallow, his heart races as his fingers trail along her perfect abdomen, stroke gently over the soft slit glistening sweetly beneath his heated gaze. As she watches his movements, her body reacts in ways she had not experienced until now. As he swivels and strokes, her desire grows wet and hungry, spreads, flickers and licks through her veins like wildfire. She needs him, craves him. Everything about her that opens begs in desperation to be filled, stretched, plundered, ravished, taken. As he exposes her to such pleasures as this, forbidden treasures unlocked in the confines of this beat up old Volkswagen, this tiny trap of steel and leather, he is ragged with an ache he feels will rip him to pieces if not satisfied. In one smooth motion he removes his fingers and slides beneath her as she straddles him, biting his neck, his strong jaw, moving her strawberry tongue between his lips. Pressed together and quivering on the brink, they find the rhythm which carries them over the edge, shattering into prismatic ecstasy like a thousand shooting stars exploding one after another across the clear midnight sky.

The ones who say the youth is wasted on the young have forgotten the beauty in the wasted. As they slice and dice us and sell us back to ourselves in jagged little pieces, we continue to search for a truth we’ve known since birth but constantly deny. What good are fancy clothes when all we want is to be naked. What good is safe when what we want is to be free.

Eye Candy

Afraid of becoming invisible to myself, I hide away and write some words which contain small flecks of what I have seen. Writing is what makes me who I am which is terrifying but some of us were born with words for lungs and stories for breath and there’s really not much else we can do but shut the door and bleed. Much of it is junk and thus the self loathing begins but once in a while I catch the tail of something worthwhile even as it’s trying to escape me. I hold tight. There is uncertainty as often as there is distraction, such is the way of shifty things you can’t predict. The hallways of my mind lead to dark places where my dreams come alive, where I can watch you from a distance as you flash like headlights across an empty wall. I dance for you. I shed my human skin and move like an angel to heavenly hymns until you can no longer contain your desire. Taking me as your own, the heat in your hardness leaves no more questions. When you’ve had your way with my body, my mouth, my sex, we smoke cigarettes and retreat into perfect silence. There is something mad about you. The way you know just when to speak and when there is more to be said by not saying anything. You are a mystery as shady as any of the ones I map within my bones. Holding hands, we take to the streets, heels clicking as we suck in the balmy night air. Downtown the electric city is a carnival of colored lights and music, voices and laughter sifting out from a lengthy row of outdoor bars. Nights like this are a show, time blurs, fades, disappears. I watch as a beautiful slender girl with rich soft breasts leans into her girlfriend for a kiss, waiting for drinks they tongue and tease each other shamelessly and I am transfixed. Young bodies like supple flowers, wilting and blossoming in pink neon light. Imagining a scene where you are laid down in a forest as several thirsty nymphs surround you and take you to the edge again and again, my mind swells with a buzzing desire for intimate things. I know you see through me. I know that one look in my eyes will tell you all the secrets I try to hide and you will string them out in front of me one at a time. You want my stories, naked, raw, and dripping. When I beg for mercy you don’t for one second let up. The moon is red tonight, the clouds sheer swaths of black as they cover and expose her.

Cut

Did you know if I put this pen down the sadness in my soul will wail and cry out for me all day in deep moans to pick it up again, pleading with me to spill the ink and relieve the pain. Did you know that when I look into her eyes I can see a tigress staring back at me through the spinning of countless tiny slits and pixels, the flashing of nocturnal yellow lights reflecting me back into myself a thousand times a thousand times. Her full lashes lifting and dropping as though a siren song, a heavy burden aching for release, come into me, come closer, this could take us into dangerous places, this could take all night. Did you know that my first poem was written in fruity scented pink and purple gel in a spiral notebook whose wires I had bent and unraveled so many times it began to cut my skin and catch the threads on my knit sweater when I pulled it, tattered and torn, from my rainbow backpack. Did you know my first boyfriend was as shy as I was and it made me sweat all over for reasons I had yet to understand, but I liked it when he kissed me with his young soft lips, fumbled a trembling hand through my long strawberry blonde hair. He used to watch me from the window of his school bus. He told me so and I wonder if he’d be surprised I still remember such a tiny detail. But things like that are monumental when your world and your body are so small. Did you know that I can’t stand the sun because to me it sounds like screaming. That when a thing shines too bright I am afraid of the shift in its intentions. Did you know I love the darkness, outside and in. Pull the apocalyptic heavens over me, tell me to kneel before you in the pouring drench of the evening rain, wet me. Make me repeat your name in the shadows as you touch me from behind, whisper what you’ll do to me with that fervent tongue of yours, teeth trailing bite marks down my spine. Did you know I like it when my fingers are pale and my dagger nails are blood down your back. When I take the length of you in my hands I taste the curved edge of you like a final prayer before spiraling down into my own beautiful death. Did you know I think of you as if without you there would be nothing left. There are lights but they are low and tempting. I can see their warmth, the cruel intrusion of my sharp desire, flicking in your chest.