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Friday, June 29, 2012

A Doll of Your Muse

I can’t write today.  I couldn’t possibly.  I’ve nothing to say.
Still; there’s a meadow and it’s covered in fog up to my knees. 
Meandering through it, hands just on the surface of the mist, I can feel the sharpness sting my palms.
Wincing at the unpleasant sensation I bring them to my face to see tiny droplets of blood run from the open wound, into the mist below.
The fog is no longer docile and begins to whirl around my legs; a veritable tempest about my knees and legs, beating me.
The pain isn’t entirely unpleasant.  More like the dancing of memories of a thousand days gone by; it is intense and it demands attention.
Looking down I see the swirling gale is no longer a mist; though it still resembles one so fast is it moving.
My blood combines with the milieu and I wonder what of my flesh is left; if anything.
The fight or flight comes now and somehow I’m apart from this as well, just an observer of the physical response to the danger presented by recollection.
The mist is coalescing now, mixing with the blood to form a thick blackness that is as solid as stone and immediately recognizable; at least to me.
Next is the call.  A clarion demanding my attention and I fall to my knees.  Up to my neck in the familiar blackness; though it whips around me so fast I can no longer clearly see it.
Wrapping around me, I can feel it, so familiar, so painful and yet so comforting. It’s enigma is that it is a contradiction and it’s contradiction is that it is an enigma.
Burrowing into my skin at the base of my spine I am jolted to my feet as it writhes and wriggles its way inside demanding entry so that it may escape.
I willingly take it in; knowing what comes next and welcoming it.
Arms outstretched, hands balled into fists I open my mouth and it escapes.
Black bile erupts; travelling from all around me, through me and out again.
So violent is this experience that I don’t at first see the sludge for what it is and what shape it takes until;
Standing before me is the most perfect example of human emotion incarnate
The black mixture of mist and blood takes form around her; for it is now clearly a “her” and I can see the descriptive words of every experience I’ve ever had; every memory I never wanted and every feeling I ever did.
Her mummified beauty excites, and spurns me as she raises a finger, dripping with ink, motioning me to come hither.
I can’t write today, I say.
I couldn’t possibly.  I’ve nothing to say.

Monday, June 11, 2012

The Box

All you have to do is get into the box
That's all
Just climb in and wrap yourself up in the warm embrace of
The Standard
The Status Quo
Take comfort in the fact that YOU are just like everyone else
YOU are made to order and
Fit to be king.
All you have to do is get into the box
This box is custom designed for you
Made for only you and one size fits most
You can be yourself
See yourself
Love yourself in this box
And once you're inside you will have
Security of comformity
Because no matter what's inside this box
It's all the same to the rest of us
We love you just the way you are and
It doesn't matter to us what's inside the box
All we need to know is that we can relate
To the outside
All you have to do is get into the box
That's all
Then you get a wife
You get kids
You get a car and a job
You get a house and
You even get a
It won't cost much
Not much at all
Just three easy payments of
With an additional cost of
Confidence and Pride
But that's just to cover the shipping and handling
Just one last reminder that
Individual results may vary and we are not responsible for
Heartache, Heartbreak, Depression, Concession, Rape due to no meaning yes,
Fear of abandonment, sudden codependency,
increase in thoughts or feelings of wishing for love, Desperate loneliness
(especially in crowded rooms or social situations) feelings of unworthiness and
a Sharp increase in feelings of parnoia and/or broken promises.
All you have to do is get in the box.
All you have to do is
Fit in . . .

The box.

Monday, June 4, 2012

Black Widow

Words.  They're only words.  Oh, but we all know they're so much more.  I'd wager that it wasn't a face that launched those thousand ships.  It isn't a thousand words that are worth a picture.  No, it's the words.  They're power, and they're blood and they're life and death all at once.  And in the end they're all I have.  They're what keep me going, the fuel of my fire, what makes me happiest in this world--I'm like a child in a sandbox as I weave entire beings, races, planets galaxies and universes--so who could have foreseen that they'd cause me so much pain?  Who would have known that it would be words--no, not words . . . word--who would have known that a word would make me want to visit the dark places of my psyche that I haven't been to in quite some time.

You see, dear reader, this is the madness of my muse and as I told you in the beginning this is where you'll see my soul.  It isn't all fluffy poetry; here beats the heart of an artist and one thing you must understand about artists is that we tend to use pain as fuel for the creativity that drives us to entertain you.  Even now, my eyes burn with it and a rock resides in my gut, near my solar plexus as I process the events of life.  The love and the hate and how the two coexist in such harmony creating this thing of horrific beauty.  You cannot help but be entranced but your every molecule burns with the ancient instinct of flight; begging, pleading with you to turn away but you can't seem to do it because it's so beautiful.  Ironic, isn't it?  That love and hate should be the same thing observed from different precepts?  I didn't actually know this myself until this day.  The two are bedfellows and with the interplay of words--the intellectual intercourse between the two a world can be created that is a thing of beauty and a marvel of horrors . . . .

The bed was cold.  Interesting because it was almost 90 degrees outside.  She felt the icy chill run up her legs into her heart and she knew he was touching her.  She didn't cringe, nor did she moan with pleasure.  She merely lay there, silently praying he would stop yet somehow hoping he wouldn't  It was the juxtaposition of these two things that gave her the greatest concern; this, and the fact that the icy chill she'd felt a moment ago now seemed to burn with a fire that began deep within her.  She cursed her own body as she felt the wetness begin and she knew that sex was inescapable now.  She welcomed it, in fact and this knowledge made her want to cry more than anything else.  Still, she didn't move, forcing herself to lay as still as if the rape she imagined in her brain were real because that was the only way she'd get through this, to lay still and just let him do to her what he wanted.  She couldn't . . . wouldn't let him know that she wanted it to.  She wouldn't say no or stop or anything else that might stop his hands touching her.  Her brain was a trainwreck and her emotions were the casualty.  She felt sexual and sensual beneath his touch.  She wanted to feel his hardness open her loins and push inside her but she knew that she was the victim in this and she knew she must put a stop to it.

She didn't move.

His mouth was on her now and she cursed herself for gasping.  For letting him know how much she loved it, for showing how aroused she really was through her hate.  She instinctively pushed herself onto his lapping tongue allowing herself to relish this moment, this the greatest of pleasure she'd ever received from her lover.  She inhaled sharply as she twitched within.  Somehow, sensing this he pushed two fingers inside and sensually made love to her using only mouth and digits.  Slowly and carefully as if loving her with his sex he drew her closer to the pinnacle of pleasure.  She cursed him again and felt her imminent climax intensify with the fire of her hatred and anger.  How dare he!?  How dare he make her feel this good when she loathed him so.  Worse, how dare she let him?  What kind of woman was she?  Harlot? Whore? No. These words described things she didn't believe in.  She gasped again as these thoughts fled from her brain under his expert tongue and she felt herself begin to cum.  She pushed him away from her but suddenly felt unbearable pain at his loss and so she pulled him back in.  He didn't let up through any of it.  He made love to her, still using only mouth and fingers and now she was going to cum and she knew it.  She felt her climax begin to explode behind her eyes and the pleasure burned as hot as the anger.  She knew then that she had to be rid of both to find peace.

She moved.

She motioned for him to lay down on his back and she looked at him.  He was soft, and somehow she knew that this meant he was giving to her.  He hadn't been looking for his own pleasure.  Rather, he'd been hoping to heal her using the power of his love.  He'd failed and he might never know.  She decided this was a mercy as she gripped him at his base, gave his soft but ample form a shake and was immediately rewarded.  The blood rushed into him as involuntarily as her wetness had rushed into her.  She felt the familiar rush of excitement as he became thicker and she knew she was going to miss the way she felt, full of him.  Still, cocks were a dime a dozen and there were any number of boys waiting for a chance to get inside her.  She knew she'd miss him but ultimately, he was replaceable.  She wondered if this meant she was in a full fugue state separated from reality . . . but decided not to think about it.  She looked down and noticed she was on top now, maneuvering him into position and she allowed herself a small moan as he impaled herself on his familiarly rigid, thick form.  She sank slowly down and enjoyed his hands on her hips; they always made her feel so sexy.  She pushed the feeling away and resolved to find her own sex appeal from now on.  He moved her hands onto his breast and her anger got the better of her and she grabbed the nipple and twisted with all her might.  She panicked when the blood came, but the panic wasn't due to what had happened, it was due to the utter elation she felt.  She twisted more and now the blood came in a gout, dark and thick.  He was unresponsive and she wasn't sure why; though this was secondary to her now.  She simply did not care.  She felt him throbbing inside her and she moaned louder reaching for a pillow.  He welcomed this and pulled her hands down positioning the pillow on his face.  He thrust urgently as she pushed the pillow down over him.  His movements were erratic and his moans loud.  Irritated she pressed harder.  The thrusting made her cum again and she felt her wetness run over him like a dam being broken.  She groaned louder moving her hips in time with his spasming body.

He didn't move.

She pressed the pillow tighter over his face, and worked her hips over his groin.  She gasped as she came again; finally able to relax now that he'd stopped moving, stopped moaning and stopped thrusting.  As her orgasm subsided she felt a warm, moist rush enter her and she relaxed softly.  His cum filled her and she smiled.  There were fewer feelings as good as this one.  She knew without knowing how that she'd never feel a man inside her again.  She didn't care.  She knew that she'd had the best men had to offer and she knew they'd damaged her irrevocably.  She'd done what she needed to do to be okay and she felt free.  She moved the pillow from his face and looked into his eyes.  They stared up, lifeless and empty; beautifully blue and breathtaking.  A drop of water fell into one of them and she was puzzled.  She felt her face cautiously and was sure now, it wasn't water, it was her tears.  Anger, pain and remorse flooded out of her and fell onto his face.  Laughter burst from her mouth.  It was over now.  Finally and completely over.

He didn't move.