Climax

Drifting languidly away from everyone and everything which is disintegrating on this hollow glassy globe, I perch in a treetop like a fairy nymph lit up in moon glow. My little feet dangling in the empty night air, I watch as far below nothing happens that anyone else can see. The blackness of midnight stretches out in every direction, swallowing endless fields of graying husks left for dead against the cold hard ground. Looking up at the marbled purple sky, I see the moon looming larger than my entire life, hung there cratered and pillaged and beaming, basking in the strangeness of her own uneven face. When the hour is right, and the creatures of night move within every inch of my bones, I lean back upon the tree to steady myself, part my legs wide as each one falls on either side of the thick branch in which I have made my feathered nest. By the light of each winking star that shines on my skin, I finger my sweetness while riding the tender surges of energy that come in ecstatic eruptions from their distant glimmer. Make me one with the ancients, with each act of deep erotic penetration, commune me with every mouth which ever uttered the mighty names of the Gods as they raised their sharp blades, made sacrifices on altars of crimson and gold. Open my veins and drink of my blood like mad rivers of nightmares and dreams. Part my ribs and dig your grave in the calm center of my slamming heart that I may know you are not afraid of the chaos of the storms that I am and always will be. My sweat mixed with exotic night air, my hair all colors of the wind which blows with steady force against the rising of the tides, I move with them, heaving breath and sacred rhythm. Reaching my peak as the trees tremble and quake with my movements, I cry out in ragged adoration for the white hot explosion I have made myself endure. In this quiet seclusion high above the earth below, I have never felt more safe, more alone, or more beautiful. The others cannot understand. They need love but hate themselves for it. They want freedom but put themselves through all manner of hell to avoid revealing the little freaks they really are. But creatures like us, we worship only feeling. We suckle only upon the full breasts of melancholy, dip our tongues in to caress only the soft flesh of sadness as she moans beneath us, helpless, sinister, supple, needy. Give her what she longs for, bring her to her knees. Having heard my sensual song, you come climbing down from the mountain, your animal eyes flash yellow, reflective, hunting me through the swaying leaves. Your movements are primal, heart beat steady, as your muscles snake their way around my body in the dark.

Moth to a Flame

Lying back in the grass, her body is covered with butterflies. A thousand tiny spiracles breathing out and in against her warmth. A quiet host of countless wings, still wishing she could fly. Away from the cold earth high up into the evening sky, higher and higher until with her own eyes she can read the dark secrets written in the crumbling caverns of the moon. The mysteries of time and love and eternity all revealed before her, resonating with a part of her which had already known, which had always known, but she had forgotten so long ago. All the many truths which had been taken from her, returned. As the night drapes over her, the tiny creatures take flight, leaving her one by one, flittering off into the ether until she is covered only in darkness. This girl with the flashing golden nocturnal eyes. Out here away from everything, nothing ever questions its own instincts. To hesitate is death, to doubt is a lethal compromise, a final and devastating mistake. The natural world respects not greed but vigilance. The songs of her soul in the blackness of midnight number more vast than all the stars strung out against the sky and she knows in the way the night wind is moving across the field that she belongs only to herself. That the choices she makes from the depths of her heart are all that was ever meant to be. Her body, her bones, her skin, her hands, her lips, are all the ancient texts ever written into being. In her nakedness, she runs freely, she swims in the moonlight, she presses herself to the roughness of trees, the coolness of rocks, she carves her name into the fallen logs by the stream. Her footsteps are offerings upon the earth, her scent left swaying in the willows. She takes herself in a bed of blood red roses, blooming in the dark, pulsing with the heat of a thousand suns, breathless. And by the first pale lights of the promise of dawn, she’s vanished.