Originally Posted: 9/22/09
You're a tall glass of scalding hot water, poured down my throat. You burn like the whiskey I've grown so fond of, but you leave scars behind like fat, violating fingers forced into soft orifices. I could certainly tame you, but I prefer you run wild and fill me with fantasies of rocking hips, grinding along to something that vaguely resembles music, too drunk to care that you're singing off-key while you ride me, too drunk to care that you're riding me. That something slightly trashy, slightly classy, and altogether wonderful.
She steals like a thief but she's always a woman to me.
I'm unsure of how to proceed here, like treading new water or walking knee-deep in a shit bog, barefoot, harvesting human refuse in hopes of making art. None of my skills seem particularly useful right now. I don't think the best of them would impress you. For all my prowess, I can hardly make you bat an eye. What time is it? And silence is my answer.
This movie sucks. Better suck my dick or something.
I like petty things more than I like pretty things. Pretty thing make one covetous, jealous, and entirely too serious. I'm much more lackadaisical, much more reserved. I'd rather sit back with a nice cold beer and watch a pretty thing get gang fucked than have to touch it myself. Petty things, though, petty things are different. Petty things are valuable only to someone who sees their value. Otherwise, their worth is so miniscule it hardly warrants noticing. I scoop those little things up and hold onto them, secure in my possession, secure in our mutual need (and, often as not, mutual distaste) for each other.
I'd like to block you out because your singing is unnerving, its a distraction, and I have work to do. Important work. Not important to the world, but important to me. You could be important to me, someday. Maybe. Right now, though, you're another voice in the din, another muse among many. Or maybe one facet of a muse that's too large to comprehend with the human eye. I haven't decided yet. I hear it isn't size that matters, anyway, it's intent that counts. Whichever, I'm on the wrong side. I'm not very big and I mean only to harm you. I'm incapable of doing good with these hands.
This all seems sort of trite and boring, doesn't it? Kind of unwarranted, at least. I suppose I can see where I think I have a point but, you have to agree, most of what I say is bullshit and silly metaphor. Bleeding words so I don't have to sacrifice part of myself. Or so it appears.
One thing is for certain, I'd really like to fuck you. Not for any particular reason. Nothing comes to mind, at any rate. I'd just enjoy it. Like I enjoy macaroni and cheese, or coffee, or cigarettes. I could probably do without it, but why bother? Far better to get what I want than dwell on the idea of it.
Now that I've gotten myself all worked up, I've got a beating or two to hand out before sleep claims me. She's a tricky mistress, sleep. Always sneaking up on a man and walloping him on the head. Kind of like that uppity nigger in Blazing Saddles. Or she would be if she carried a shovel and hit you accidentally. That, however, is not the case. She's calculating, manipulative, and sexy. Just the way I like my creatures of the night. The only way I'll let them touch me without devouring them on the spot.
Dream deep, little wanderer. The empty sky is wider than you know.
Unflinchingly Yours,
-S.R.
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