I've done a lot of reading lately, and not much of anything else. Its like hanging in stasis. Suspended, unmoving, trapped. I'm not running in place because that would require effort. I'm not stuck in a rut. My mind churns on and on, hurling thought at me from whatever nebulous place it originates until I'm filled with it, choking on it. I swallow, force it down, and keep hanging there. Swinging gently back and forth in the midday sun. Strung up for crimes against humanity or crimes against creativity. I'm not dead. Something like me can't really die this way, but I am decaying. I'm rotting and the things I used to enjoy are consuming me just as they wither away from malnourishment.
I'm wasting away here, and I fucking hate it.
Maybe this is that place I needed to find before I could not sink any lower. I spend my hours leaping back and forth between wondering about women and whether I'll ever settle down and stop being this lonesome, loathesome thing that just wanders into people's lives and quietly vanishes. Or worrying about a job that, honestly, doesn't mean anything to me. What do I care? Let the store burn down. I'm not seeing any benefit of all my work. I'm not heaped with praise for the way I do my job. Its a bullshit, dead-end fucking nightmare day-in and day-out. Nothing changes, nothing improves, and I'm getting sick of wasting my time. I spend my time on these things, or wondering if I will ever actually lose all that weight I keep talking about.
But mostly, I wonder about writing. See, I've done all this reading lately and I've come to realize that I need a hand. No novel, no poetry collection, no cohesive piece of work is ever solely the creation of a single person. I have a completed draft of a novel that's simply sitting. I haven't touched it in over a year. I finished it, set it aside, and started working on something else. I figured in a few months I'd go back to it, do some re-reading and editing, take more notes, and build something concrete to send out. I know where it needs work, more or less, but I need help with it. I've got a short story I need a few pointers on. I've got heaps of poetry in a vague collection that I have no idea what to do with.
In short, I need a hand here.
See, I've decided to cut this rope and stand on my own again. To feel the earth breathing beneath the soles of my feet. I'm going to run. I'm going to fight. I'm going to beat my chest and thrash and scream if I have to, because fuck just hanging here. Fuck stasis. I will not be old and broken, still talking about what could have been. I've never been that kind of man. I've always hurled myself against the wall headfirst and damn the consequences. Somewhere, I stopped doing that. Somewhere, I just stopped. Well now I've got a bit of bone, just sawing away. I could really use a knife.
If you'd like to help (and therefore be lauded in Aknowledgements pages for all the world to see when I'm incredibly famous as a smithy of words) get in touch with me. I know, as human beings go, people have busy schedules and I'm not aiming for this to be a quick process. As I said, some of these things require a good deal of work. But your contributuions would be vastly appreciated.
Keep in mind that I'm mostly looking for help with the fiction. I would like some aid in arranging poems and cutting out those that aren't working, and help with that will not be underappreciated because its difficult work, but the fiction is always my passion. And keep in mind that I write fantasy. I will provide glossaries and notes and I'm available to answer any questions that come up, but its still fantasy and that can get a little bit...confusing for people the first time they attempt it. Unfortunately, I don't actually know many people who make a regular habit of reading my beloved genre but I think that's a minor drawback. Fantasy is really a wonderful thing. More people should get into it. And not simply so I'll sell more books.
One last thought, if anyone has a good eye for cartography or really any sort of artwork get in touch with me. I think visualizing things is always the best way to write about them and it would be very nice to have some character sketches or pictures of places. See how close I've come in my descriptions. And maps, obviously, would be of unlimited help.
I realize I may have swayed you by steeping you in my personal despair before I plead for help, but don't offer just to make me happy. I want help here, but I need dedicated help. If you can spare an hour a week, that's perfect, but I need that hour. I'll devote all my time and energy to making it easier on you, as a show of thanks for all your help, but I'll need that help to be consistent and willingly given. Otherwise, don't worry yourself about it.
Gratefully Yours,
-S.R.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
May Your Death Come Quickly
I put nails in my hands to keep them from shaking, and grind my teeth to keep my tongue in check. I could destroy you with a single errant flick of the wrist, and cut your fucking eyes out with the sharp edge of a careless word. Human beings are fragile things, despite their bluster, despite the way they carry on about their strength. To be so easily killed is shameful. To say the least, you are beneath me. Writhing, roiling, pitiful things that dare not raise their heads for fear of having them taken off.
I prey upon the weak and sate my hunger with their flesh. I tear the limbs from children to amuse myself. I am not a monster any more than you're a god. I'm am what you've made of me. I am hatred, darkness, and despair. Violence incarnate. I am death come reaping, and if you cross my path there won't be enough left of you for mourning. The gods will scorn your foolishness. Hel herself will disdain you.
My shadow spreads over the world, over these insectile scurrying lives, dark as moonless midnight. There is no more savior in me. No more mercy. I am all of malice and massacres. Wholesale slaughter to slake the thirst. I have ever been a thing of desires, and for all my lust of sweat and lace and silken skin I have always preferred to burn, level, devour. The feel of pleasure under my fingertips is nothing beside crushing bones in my hands. Beside wielding fire as a painter wields his brushes.
My flesh bristles with poisoned tips, shards of bone that jut at odd angles from joints, fingertips, knuckles, shoulders. An array of jagged, ivory blades. Touching me will shear off hands. Embracing me will impale you on a hundred barbs, skewer your body like a pincushion. Nearing me is dangerous. One false step is fatal.
Ragged black wings fall around me like a cloak. Smoke wreathes my face like a burial shroud. Nothing lives under my gaze. Even those who exult at the whisper of my lips find themselves dessicated, dying of thirst. Dawn will not bring solace for them. They will never see the sun rise again.
My power is nearly limitless. My wrath is infinite. The cities of man will burn, this world will die with humanity's last, great purge. The size of your arrogance is astounding. The stench of you is loathesome. The lucky will perish in the first wave.
For the rest, there awaits only suffering.
Malevolently Yours,
-S.R.
I prey upon the weak and sate my hunger with their flesh. I tear the limbs from children to amuse myself. I am not a monster any more than you're a god. I'm am what you've made of me. I am hatred, darkness, and despair. Violence incarnate. I am death come reaping, and if you cross my path there won't be enough left of you for mourning. The gods will scorn your foolishness. Hel herself will disdain you.
My shadow spreads over the world, over these insectile scurrying lives, dark as moonless midnight. There is no more savior in me. No more mercy. I am all of malice and massacres. Wholesale slaughter to slake the thirst. I have ever been a thing of desires, and for all my lust of sweat and lace and silken skin I have always preferred to burn, level, devour. The feel of pleasure under my fingertips is nothing beside crushing bones in my hands. Beside wielding fire as a painter wields his brushes.
My flesh bristles with poisoned tips, shards of bone that jut at odd angles from joints, fingertips, knuckles, shoulders. An array of jagged, ivory blades. Touching me will shear off hands. Embracing me will impale you on a hundred barbs, skewer your body like a pincushion. Nearing me is dangerous. One false step is fatal.
Ragged black wings fall around me like a cloak. Smoke wreathes my face like a burial shroud. Nothing lives under my gaze. Even those who exult at the whisper of my lips find themselves dessicated, dying of thirst. Dawn will not bring solace for them. They will never see the sun rise again.
My power is nearly limitless. My wrath is infinite. The cities of man will burn, this world will die with humanity's last, great purge. The size of your arrogance is astounding. The stench of you is loathesome. The lucky will perish in the first wave.
For the rest, there awaits only suffering.
Malevolently Yours,
-S.R.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Sadism and Sensuality
I will wrap you around my finger, while I push my fingers inside. Gently, surely, I will never hurt you until you ask me to. I'll snatch the air from your lungs with a kiss like a punch to the solar plexus, and give it back to you in short, dizzying gasps that set stars bursting in your eyes. I'll be lightning on your nerves until they stretch toward me, magnetically, each of its own volition seeking to touch me. I'll be fire blooming along the contours of your body until sweat pools at your clavicle and the faint hint of blood rising to the surface colors you from hairline to toenails.
I'll wrap my fingers around your neck and clench my fists until your vertebrae groan from the pressure. I will leash you about the throat and make you heel for my amusement. I'll whip you with cord or rope or belts until your smooth, ivory skin stands red with angry welts, like a man beaten in a town square. I'll bind your wrists and ankles until they're rubbed red and raw from struggling. I'll take you again and again, pausing only long enough between to see that you're still safely in my power. I will scar you until your worship me.
I will trace you with my fingertips, like a blind man reading your flesh. I will savor you and covet you, something precious to delight in. I will memorize the way you taste, the way light clings to your skin. I will find the deepest parts of you and linger there, teasing playfully and darting away, spreading bits of pleasure here and laughter there. I will be confidence and sweetness on your lips.
I will tear holes in your flesh and burrow in your veins. I will plant seeds in your guts. I will sink my teeth into your softest parts and rend you just to drink you in. I'll find myself insatiable, I'll find you fit to devour.
There is a maelstrom in me.
Lasciviously Yours,
-S.R.
I'll wrap my fingers around your neck and clench my fists until your vertebrae groan from the pressure. I will leash you about the throat and make you heel for my amusement. I'll whip you with cord or rope or belts until your smooth, ivory skin stands red with angry welts, like a man beaten in a town square. I'll bind your wrists and ankles until they're rubbed red and raw from struggling. I'll take you again and again, pausing only long enough between to see that you're still safely in my power. I will scar you until your worship me.
I will trace you with my fingertips, like a blind man reading your flesh. I will savor you and covet you, something precious to delight in. I will memorize the way you taste, the way light clings to your skin. I will find the deepest parts of you and linger there, teasing playfully and darting away, spreading bits of pleasure here and laughter there. I will be confidence and sweetness on your lips.
I will tear holes in your flesh and burrow in your veins. I will plant seeds in your guts. I will sink my teeth into your softest parts and rend you just to drink you in. I'll find myself insatiable, I'll find you fit to devour.
There is a maelstrom in me.
Lasciviously Yours,
-S.R.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
The Politics of Food
So I went to Panera Bread today, to get some soup bowl bullshit for my assistant. I've avoided Panera so far, despite its rapid growth out of nowhere, because new things make me uncomfortable and I hate to spend money on food that may or may not suck. However, I've been there twice this week (both times picking up food for someone else) and I have to say this: Fuck Panera Bread. Fuck them right up their tight, pretensious asses.
See, now I'm pissed off about politics and culture because a fucking fast food chain tried to make me feel inferior. I'm not inferior to you, sandwich joint. I am superior. Because I have a dick and thumbs and money to burn somewhere else.
Let me explain that, it was a bunch of nonsense.
When you think of a person identified as "a liberal" what do you picture? I would bet dollars to dimes it was one of two things. Either a tall, slim, perhaps vaguely ethnic (but probably more white than not) male with too much money and a flowery tongue. The kind of man that is intelligent, intellectual, charming, and maybe just a little bit too rich. He's confident bordering on arrogant. That, or you pictured an uneducated, hemp wearing, jobless loser that smells like patchouli and failure.
Now, picture "a conservative". I'll bet it was a stodgy old man, white of course, maybe with just the hint of a southern drawl, again probably too rich and well dressed. He misses the way things were "back in the day", hates fun and has a summer home somewhere along the coast of God's Waiting Room. That, or he was a redneck halfwit sporting a camo hat and an entire wardrobe purchased from Army surplus stores, missing at least half his front teeth, and swilling lukewarm Coors Light (despite it being clearly intended for cold consumption).
Here's the problem with those things, aside from the fact that you're picturing people at the opposite end of the socio-economic spectrum regardless of which political alignment you look at: You're fucking wrong.
You're fucking wrong, because there is no difference between those two. Their beleifs are so close together they could fingerblast each other. The real difference between the two is, and quite frankly always has been, who gets more power in making laws. That's it. The rest is just bullshit.
The real differences exist in the people themselves and the kind of horseshit they'll put up with. Go to a small town diner. Like the one here in Milford. Fox News is on every television. There are pictures of Regan and Bush Jr. (and Sr. come to think on it) just fucking everywhere. If you walk in there wearing denim and a t-shirt, nobody bats and eye. If you walk in there looking like a colored person, they might look up. If you walk in there with a septum piercing and death metal bandshirt, they might chuckle. These are just people eating. The owners and the managers are the ones promoting all the bullshit on the walls. Maybe a handful of regulars. The rest of them don't really care. Unless you strike up a conversation. Then, they'll ram all their cracker-jack fucking ideas down your throat until you regurgitate the Tea Party.
That's actually something I appreciate about conservatives. They're mostly, well conservative. They don't bring it up until you do. And you do. Because you're a liberal. And that makes you kind of an asshole. Again, this is a difference in people ( by and large, there are clearly exceptions).
Now leave that diner and walk into Starbucks. Try not to kill yourself. Hear that bullshit music they're playing? Some fuck-off indie pseudo-rock that sounds somewhat like a wild boar fucking a guitar? See all those funny words on the menu that might be English, or Italian, or just a crock of shit somebody made up? Take a deep breath through your nose. Really let that pretension sink in. Try to lock eyes with the guy in the horn-rimmed glasses with the Mac laptop in the corner, pretending to work on his novel and surreptitiously glaring at you for not already admiring what a fucking literary genius he must be just by nearing his essence. If you hang out there for more than ten minutes, I guarantee someone will start talking to you. And what do they want to talk about? Probably politics.
Punch that guy right in the throat and leave.
Now, there is something in there I appreciate about liberals. They are, for the most part, concise and blunt. They tend to use facts to their advantage (while insisting time and again that they are, in all reality, facts if somewhat skewed toward their own opinions). They tend to avoid slipping into name-calling and scare tactics (although they are still using the tried and true blame-the-other-guy method). I appreciate a logical argument. Just not when I'm trying to eat.
I'm not really sure where I wanted to go with this, and i'm sure I've gotten off-topic, if I ever had a topic.
My point is this: if you identify yourself as 'liberal' or 'conservative' and you don't fit into those stereotypes I mentioned above, you are a jackass. That should be your political affiliation. Jackass. Don't simply mold your beleifs into an already established (however vaguely) set of ideals. Create your own. Be an individual.
And for fuck's sake stay away from my food.
Yours,
-S.R.
See, now I'm pissed off about politics and culture because a fucking fast food chain tried to make me feel inferior. I'm not inferior to you, sandwich joint. I am superior. Because I have a dick and thumbs and money to burn somewhere else.
Let me explain that, it was a bunch of nonsense.
When you think of a person identified as "a liberal" what do you picture? I would bet dollars to dimes it was one of two things. Either a tall, slim, perhaps vaguely ethnic (but probably more white than not) male with too much money and a flowery tongue. The kind of man that is intelligent, intellectual, charming, and maybe just a little bit too rich. He's confident bordering on arrogant. That, or you pictured an uneducated, hemp wearing, jobless loser that smells like patchouli and failure.
Now, picture "a conservative". I'll bet it was a stodgy old man, white of course, maybe with just the hint of a southern drawl, again probably too rich and well dressed. He misses the way things were "back in the day", hates fun and has a summer home somewhere along the coast of God's Waiting Room. That, or he was a redneck halfwit sporting a camo hat and an entire wardrobe purchased from Army surplus stores, missing at least half his front teeth, and swilling lukewarm Coors Light (despite it being clearly intended for cold consumption).
Here's the problem with those things, aside from the fact that you're picturing people at the opposite end of the socio-economic spectrum regardless of which political alignment you look at: You're fucking wrong.
You're fucking wrong, because there is no difference between those two. Their beleifs are so close together they could fingerblast each other. The real difference between the two is, and quite frankly always has been, who gets more power in making laws. That's it. The rest is just bullshit.
The real differences exist in the people themselves and the kind of horseshit they'll put up with. Go to a small town diner. Like the one here in Milford. Fox News is on every television. There are pictures of Regan and Bush Jr. (and Sr. come to think on it) just fucking everywhere. If you walk in there wearing denim and a t-shirt, nobody bats and eye. If you walk in there looking like a colored person, they might look up. If you walk in there with a septum piercing and death metal bandshirt, they might chuckle. These are just people eating. The owners and the managers are the ones promoting all the bullshit on the walls. Maybe a handful of regulars. The rest of them don't really care. Unless you strike up a conversation. Then, they'll ram all their cracker-jack fucking ideas down your throat until you regurgitate the Tea Party.
That's actually something I appreciate about conservatives. They're mostly, well conservative. They don't bring it up until you do. And you do. Because you're a liberal. And that makes you kind of an asshole. Again, this is a difference in people ( by and large, there are clearly exceptions).
Now leave that diner and walk into Starbucks. Try not to kill yourself. Hear that bullshit music they're playing? Some fuck-off indie pseudo-rock that sounds somewhat like a wild boar fucking a guitar? See all those funny words on the menu that might be English, or Italian, or just a crock of shit somebody made up? Take a deep breath through your nose. Really let that pretension sink in. Try to lock eyes with the guy in the horn-rimmed glasses with the Mac laptop in the corner, pretending to work on his novel and surreptitiously glaring at you for not already admiring what a fucking literary genius he must be just by nearing his essence. If you hang out there for more than ten minutes, I guarantee someone will start talking to you. And what do they want to talk about? Probably politics.
Punch that guy right in the throat and leave.
Now, there is something in there I appreciate about liberals. They are, for the most part, concise and blunt. They tend to use facts to their advantage (while insisting time and again that they are, in all reality, facts if somewhat skewed toward their own opinions). They tend to avoid slipping into name-calling and scare tactics (although they are still using the tried and true blame-the-other-guy method). I appreciate a logical argument. Just not when I'm trying to eat.
I'm not really sure where I wanted to go with this, and i'm sure I've gotten off-topic, if I ever had a topic.
My point is this: if you identify yourself as 'liberal' or 'conservative' and you don't fit into those stereotypes I mentioned above, you are a jackass. That should be your political affiliation. Jackass. Don't simply mold your beleifs into an already established (however vaguely) set of ideals. Create your own. Be an individual.
And for fuck's sake stay away from my food.
Yours,
-S.R.
Friends With Benefits
Be wary, I mean to talk about sex for a bit. I know, you're apalled. You're shocked to your toenails. Let me assure you this will be lengthy and uncomfortable.
Let me also preamble the whole she-bang (hah!) with a few things. Most importantly the phrase "friends with benefits" and how, despite now using it twice in a single piece, it makes me want to strangle someone with my bare hands. The most significant benefit a person can bring into my life is simply being my friend. I don't have many, because I don't have what I'd call casual friends. I have a group of people, more than a handful and less than a flock, that have become friends. These people are dear to me and, unfortunately for them, there's no turning back. I will go to great lengths for those people without exception, and gladly scrape the very bottom of my coffers (or closets) to help them should the need arise.
Smaller than that, and closer, are a few individuals that are dearer to me than all the other treasures this world has to offer, and for them I would snatch stars out of the sky if it helped to make one moment of their lives just the smallest bit brighter. So, in that way, "friends with benefits" is sort of a redundant phrase. Being my friend is a benefit, at least for me. I understand that friendship (which is another word I dislike, because it hardly seems sufficient to define those relationships) with me can be somewhat intense and I do try, though not as often as I should, to illustrate that there are boundaries and I'm not just trying to attract people for my own narcissistic reasons. But then, at least those small few in my tiny inner circle seem to have grasped that without my saying it. For that, I am sincerely grateful.
That said, the very second you tell me I'm in "the Friend Zone" is the very second you cease to be my friend.
I don't say this because I'm in any way upset that someone in the wide, wide world wouldn't go to bed with me. Make no mistake, I'm as certain of that fact as I am of anything. The thing that offends me about this Friend Zone horseshit is that you're assuming things on my part that, quite frankly, are probably untrue. You're assuming I want to fuck you badly enough that I've been nice to you all this time. You're assuming that's the entire basis of our friendship. Otherwise, why go out of your way to insist it will never happen? Are you clairvoyant, or just being a fucking twat? How do you know the future? See, things like that urge me to actually lose all that weight I keep joking about. Not because it would make me happy to be thinner, but because I know with a ripped body and my knack for charming words I could literally bed everyone that's ever scorned me in this way. And then promptly destroy them. That would make me fucking happy.
To me, outright denying that you could ever be brought to my level is like branding 'SHALLOW CUNT' across your forehead. I didn't ask. I didn't pursue. And now, I want to drown you in a sink full of lye.
Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of people I have neither the desire nor the intention of climbing into bed with, but I wouldn't reject the simple idea that it was possible. Because I'm not an asshole.
Clearly, for my married friends or those of you who are otherwise occupied, I'm not asking that you be willing to get a seedy motel and bang away while your wife or husband or boyfriend or goat is off on a business trip. I'm all for fidelity so long as you're happy (and as long as that goat isn't a total douchebag). And I'll stress that I'm not asking for a show of hands among my friends of who is totally down to make the beast with two backs right now, tonight (although, I wouldn't exactly ignore that show of hands, either). In addition, I am well aware that other people aren't as...Whitman-esque about their interpersonal relationships as I've found I am.
But for fuck's sake, you've tolerated all of the bullshit I regularly dish out and you're saying there's no way you'd do me? Nigga, please.
I love you, dearly, in ways I cannot readily describe. At least, not with any sort of sense, and not in any way that wouldn't reaffirm whatever misguided beleifs you may already have despite my infrequent assurances that I am not, simply put, putting the moves on you. If such a thing comes to pass, then so be it. There is no reason two functioning adults can't be friends and lovers and nothing more. In reality, there is nothing more. The rest is all obligation and finances to me, and I'm in no condition for any of those things. I'm willing to meet you halfway. I've already made a more significant commitment in calling you my friend than just about anyone else has ever made. That isn't arrogance, that's genuine adoration and a sincere desire to make you, all of you, as happy as is humanly possible with all of the skills and tools in my possession. I have a way with words, on occasion, but I have a very real, very physically intimate side that isn't exactly normal. It isn't exactly perverse either.
In all seriousness, this "Friend Zone" thing bothers me because it feels like a judgement and, honestly, if you're good enough to judge me then I'm too good to be your friend.
Now, show of hands, who wants a mustache ride?
Ridiculously Yours,
-S.R.
Let me also preamble the whole she-bang (hah!) with a few things. Most importantly the phrase "friends with benefits" and how, despite now using it twice in a single piece, it makes me want to strangle someone with my bare hands. The most significant benefit a person can bring into my life is simply being my friend. I don't have many, because I don't have what I'd call casual friends. I have a group of people, more than a handful and less than a flock, that have become friends. These people are dear to me and, unfortunately for them, there's no turning back. I will go to great lengths for those people without exception, and gladly scrape the very bottom of my coffers (or closets) to help them should the need arise.
Smaller than that, and closer, are a few individuals that are dearer to me than all the other treasures this world has to offer, and for them I would snatch stars out of the sky if it helped to make one moment of their lives just the smallest bit brighter. So, in that way, "friends with benefits" is sort of a redundant phrase. Being my friend is a benefit, at least for me. I understand that friendship (which is another word I dislike, because it hardly seems sufficient to define those relationships) with me can be somewhat intense and I do try, though not as often as I should, to illustrate that there are boundaries and I'm not just trying to attract people for my own narcissistic reasons. But then, at least those small few in my tiny inner circle seem to have grasped that without my saying it. For that, I am sincerely grateful.
That said, the very second you tell me I'm in "the Friend Zone" is the very second you cease to be my friend.
I don't say this because I'm in any way upset that someone in the wide, wide world wouldn't go to bed with me. Make no mistake, I'm as certain of that fact as I am of anything. The thing that offends me about this Friend Zone horseshit is that you're assuming things on my part that, quite frankly, are probably untrue. You're assuming I want to fuck you badly enough that I've been nice to you all this time. You're assuming that's the entire basis of our friendship. Otherwise, why go out of your way to insist it will never happen? Are you clairvoyant, or just being a fucking twat? How do you know the future? See, things like that urge me to actually lose all that weight I keep joking about. Not because it would make me happy to be thinner, but because I know with a ripped body and my knack for charming words I could literally bed everyone that's ever scorned me in this way. And then promptly destroy them. That would make me fucking happy.
To me, outright denying that you could ever be brought to my level is like branding 'SHALLOW CUNT' across your forehead. I didn't ask. I didn't pursue. And now, I want to drown you in a sink full of lye.
Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of people I have neither the desire nor the intention of climbing into bed with, but I wouldn't reject the simple idea that it was possible. Because I'm not an asshole.
Clearly, for my married friends or those of you who are otherwise occupied, I'm not asking that you be willing to get a seedy motel and bang away while your wife or husband or boyfriend or goat is off on a business trip. I'm all for fidelity so long as you're happy (and as long as that goat isn't a total douchebag). And I'll stress that I'm not asking for a show of hands among my friends of who is totally down to make the beast with two backs right now, tonight (although, I wouldn't exactly ignore that show of hands, either). In addition, I am well aware that other people aren't as...Whitman-esque about their interpersonal relationships as I've found I am.
But for fuck's sake, you've tolerated all of the bullshit I regularly dish out and you're saying there's no way you'd do me? Nigga, please.
I love you, dearly, in ways I cannot readily describe. At least, not with any sort of sense, and not in any way that wouldn't reaffirm whatever misguided beleifs you may already have despite my infrequent assurances that I am not, simply put, putting the moves on you. If such a thing comes to pass, then so be it. There is no reason two functioning adults can't be friends and lovers and nothing more. In reality, there is nothing more. The rest is all obligation and finances to me, and I'm in no condition for any of those things. I'm willing to meet you halfway. I've already made a more significant commitment in calling you my friend than just about anyone else has ever made. That isn't arrogance, that's genuine adoration and a sincere desire to make you, all of you, as happy as is humanly possible with all of the skills and tools in my possession. I have a way with words, on occasion, but I have a very real, very physically intimate side that isn't exactly normal. It isn't exactly perverse either.
In all seriousness, this "Friend Zone" thing bothers me because it feels like a judgement and, honestly, if you're good enough to judge me then I'm too good to be your friend.
Now, show of hands, who wants a mustache ride?
Ridiculously Yours,
-S.R.
Friday, September 30, 2011
The Worm God Returns
And there was war in Heaven.
I have wandered, aimlessly, for time unknown. I've wandered the empty space between worlds, that vast and colorless nothingness. I have wandered Other Places, where things lurk that no Man can see. That no being could see without going mad. Maybe it is madness, then, that caused the ache to rise in me. I began to hurt, though whether the pain was physical or something else, I could never say. I hurt, that was that. I wandered anyway, heedless and blind, in all the ways that matter in those places. I crossed gray fields and black mountains, all beneath a sky that seemed transparent. A sky with nothing behind it. There was a shifting sense of self in those places, as if direction and geography and all the senses that tell us where we are, what dimensions make up our bodies, all of these things accounted for nothing.
I came upon a cave, once, at the end of it. The ache was worse, all-encompassing. My feet were bare, my shoes were long since worn away, if I'd ever worn shoes to begin with. They left trails of streaked blood in my wake, though the ground here is too insubstantial to be called rugged. My limbs felt like lead. No, not lead. Heavier. Like mountains. Every muscle in my body cried out, begged me to sit and rest. I suppose I was hungry. I was thirsty. My lips were chapped, cracked, bloodied. My throat was swollen nearly shut with thirst. My flesh, dehydrated and starved, was stretched over bones so brittle they seemed to rattle with every lurching step. My eyes, half-lidded, saw little. I felt less. I was only partially aware of my own suffering. Not lost in thought. Just lost, in truth. Wandering. Careless.
I found a cave and sat, for a time. I needed no fire. I doubt it would have done me any good to try building one. Nothing lived in this place. Nothing, truly, existed. Save for me. Maybe not even me. I was just passing through. Another empty place. I sat and, for the first time in countless years, centuries, eons, Ages, I thought.
I thought and began to feel. I felt angry. Betrayed. Alone. I felt...stupid.
The ache became something wholly different. This was pain. This was the apotheosis of pain. A shudder wracked my body, bent me at the waist, forced me to the floor, to my knees, from where I sat. I doubled, teeth gritted, blood flowing from a tongue I'd bitten through. My teeth clenched, strained, there was a crack in my jaw. My flesh, already pulled taut, began to split. My spine burst through, the skin there simply tearing open along the length of my back and falling away like layers off an onion. My bones snapped. Fingers, toes, arms, legs. One at a time, the pace steadily increasing. They snapped and splintered, tearing ragged holes in skin that was already peeling away from me, severing muscle and sinew, falling with loud, nauseating plops to the floor. The bones broke, my joints bent, unbidden, in directions they were never intended to bend.
I screamed. I screamed like a man being pulled apart, piece by piece. No scream, no sound emitted by anything living, sounds quite the same. I screamed until I saw blood in my own eyes, until my throat, already swollen, burst. Blood filled it, spilled into my mouth, poured over my lips as the peeled themselves off my face and fell away. My lungs, the air all expelled, shriveled and blackened. I tried to keep shrieking. I wondered how I was still alive.
Then I burst into flames.
My rage manifested physically in fire. My withering, broken form was engulfed, consumed. I clawed at my chest with broken fingers, tore off flame blackened ribs, smashed my useless hands against my breastbone until it shattered, and seized my heart in a skeletal fist. I roared, or tried to, and crushed it.
The fire died away, gave way to light. A blaze ever hotter, brighter. I closed my eyes against it. The light rose and filled the cave, burst through the intangible stone, blew outward in every direction as I unfurled, aching, from hibernation. My bones grew, changed, and melded together. My broken, worthless fist grew strong. My flesh leaped up from the floor, stretched, and clung to me again. My shoulders grew outward, upward, until I was winged with bone. Great, powerful wings that grew membranous and dark.
I roared again, a sound that shook the endless nothing, shook the very emptiness between one world and another. And shattered it. Shattered all of those lonely places.
I rose to my feet, towering over the blasted landscape. I looked out over the vast devastation and rolled my shoulders into their sockets. My muscles flexed of their own accord, testing themselves, rippling with power. I was power. Unparalleled power. Unimaginable power.
I turned my eyes skyward and saw my home. What had once been my home. And I knew rage like never before. I saw usurpers to my throne. I saw betrayal. I saw, and I seethed. I seethed and I roared. I leveled mountains, dried up seas, blackened all the skies in all the worlds. I covered all things in darkness. And those who would challenge me trembled, On High, everywhere. They cowered and hid, clenched hands that would not cease shaking.
Blood pounded in my head. Power coursed through my body. Rage boiled in my veins. Vengeance would slake my thirst. I was alive. I was reborn.
I have returned.
Death to all who stood against me. Death for all who will not bow. Pray I do not find you. Pray for my forgiveness now.
Come, Insects, come and be a feast for Worm. Come and see if you survive.
Murderously,
-God
I have wandered, aimlessly, for time unknown. I've wandered the empty space between worlds, that vast and colorless nothingness. I have wandered Other Places, where things lurk that no Man can see. That no being could see without going mad. Maybe it is madness, then, that caused the ache to rise in me. I began to hurt, though whether the pain was physical or something else, I could never say. I hurt, that was that. I wandered anyway, heedless and blind, in all the ways that matter in those places. I crossed gray fields and black mountains, all beneath a sky that seemed transparent. A sky with nothing behind it. There was a shifting sense of self in those places, as if direction and geography and all the senses that tell us where we are, what dimensions make up our bodies, all of these things accounted for nothing.
I came upon a cave, once, at the end of it. The ache was worse, all-encompassing. My feet were bare, my shoes were long since worn away, if I'd ever worn shoes to begin with. They left trails of streaked blood in my wake, though the ground here is too insubstantial to be called rugged. My limbs felt like lead. No, not lead. Heavier. Like mountains. Every muscle in my body cried out, begged me to sit and rest. I suppose I was hungry. I was thirsty. My lips were chapped, cracked, bloodied. My throat was swollen nearly shut with thirst. My flesh, dehydrated and starved, was stretched over bones so brittle they seemed to rattle with every lurching step. My eyes, half-lidded, saw little. I felt less. I was only partially aware of my own suffering. Not lost in thought. Just lost, in truth. Wandering. Careless.
I found a cave and sat, for a time. I needed no fire. I doubt it would have done me any good to try building one. Nothing lived in this place. Nothing, truly, existed. Save for me. Maybe not even me. I was just passing through. Another empty place. I sat and, for the first time in countless years, centuries, eons, Ages, I thought.
I thought and began to feel. I felt angry. Betrayed. Alone. I felt...stupid.
The ache became something wholly different. This was pain. This was the apotheosis of pain. A shudder wracked my body, bent me at the waist, forced me to the floor, to my knees, from where I sat. I doubled, teeth gritted, blood flowing from a tongue I'd bitten through. My teeth clenched, strained, there was a crack in my jaw. My flesh, already pulled taut, began to split. My spine burst through, the skin there simply tearing open along the length of my back and falling away like layers off an onion. My bones snapped. Fingers, toes, arms, legs. One at a time, the pace steadily increasing. They snapped and splintered, tearing ragged holes in skin that was already peeling away from me, severing muscle and sinew, falling with loud, nauseating plops to the floor. The bones broke, my joints bent, unbidden, in directions they were never intended to bend.
I screamed. I screamed like a man being pulled apart, piece by piece. No scream, no sound emitted by anything living, sounds quite the same. I screamed until I saw blood in my own eyes, until my throat, already swollen, burst. Blood filled it, spilled into my mouth, poured over my lips as the peeled themselves off my face and fell away. My lungs, the air all expelled, shriveled and blackened. I tried to keep shrieking. I wondered how I was still alive.
Then I burst into flames.
My rage manifested physically in fire. My withering, broken form was engulfed, consumed. I clawed at my chest with broken fingers, tore off flame blackened ribs, smashed my useless hands against my breastbone until it shattered, and seized my heart in a skeletal fist. I roared, or tried to, and crushed it.
The fire died away, gave way to light. A blaze ever hotter, brighter. I closed my eyes against it. The light rose and filled the cave, burst through the intangible stone, blew outward in every direction as I unfurled, aching, from hibernation. My bones grew, changed, and melded together. My broken, worthless fist grew strong. My flesh leaped up from the floor, stretched, and clung to me again. My shoulders grew outward, upward, until I was winged with bone. Great, powerful wings that grew membranous and dark.
I roared again, a sound that shook the endless nothing, shook the very emptiness between one world and another. And shattered it. Shattered all of those lonely places.
I rose to my feet, towering over the blasted landscape. I looked out over the vast devastation and rolled my shoulders into their sockets. My muscles flexed of their own accord, testing themselves, rippling with power. I was power. Unparalleled power. Unimaginable power.
I turned my eyes skyward and saw my home. What had once been my home. And I knew rage like never before. I saw usurpers to my throne. I saw betrayal. I saw, and I seethed. I seethed and I roared. I leveled mountains, dried up seas, blackened all the skies in all the worlds. I covered all things in darkness. And those who would challenge me trembled, On High, everywhere. They cowered and hid, clenched hands that would not cease shaking.
Blood pounded in my head. Power coursed through my body. Rage boiled in my veins. Vengeance would slake my thirst. I was alive. I was reborn.
I have returned.
Death to all who stood against me. Death for all who will not bow. Pray I do not find you. Pray for my forgiveness now.
Come, Insects, come and be a feast for Worm. Come and see if you survive.
Murderously,
-God
Sunday, September 25, 2011
I Like You, Get Naked.
I'm pale, like bloodless flesh left too long in the dark. I'm all made of desires and longing, composed of bits of dust and refracted light. The sum of all my parts amounts to imaginary numbers, and I've always hated algebra. I like it this way. I keep my weaknesses as private as my faith, and my flaws as public as my erections.
I've missed you of late, all of you. A strange thought came to me the other day. The first girl I ever kissed remains, to this day, one of my closest friends. One of those people nearest to my heart and fondest in my thoughts. The first girl I ever had sex with, on the other hand, has been gone since that night. Vanished with the full moon. An orgasm phantasm. I never learned her name, and I don't suspect I ever will.
Odd, for all my sexcapades, that it should suddenly occur to me that sex isn't my real goal in life. Oh, sure there is great fun to be had in flings. Great pleasure in the pursuit and capture of something you desire. There is something tantalizing about unattached physical delights. But then its gone, evaporated like so much water left in the August heat. Not that I haven't found lasting friendships arising from those heady moments, once the sweat has been washed away, the tangled sheets swapped out for new ones, and the concealing darkness traded for piercing daylight, the same woman whose throat was red in the shape of my clenching fingers just hours ago can trade witty banter and dirty jokes as if nothing happened. I've experienced that a handful of times and those friends are wonderful, bright people despite making the woeful, terrible mistake of being my friends.
No, I'm not even saying that I can't be close to someone and then have sex with them.
I'm saying the sex doesn't matter. Fuck me and leave me and I'll whistle my way through work tomorrow. Fuck me and stay and I'll bring you flowers when we meet for coffee. Either way, I'll be satisfied. You won't hurt me, I won't hurt you. We won't share any more of ourselves than we want to.
It isn't the sex that matters, its the affection. More specifically, physical affection.
The reason I remained close to those friends with whom I shared a bed, or became close afterward, was a matter of affection, rather than being hooked on what their bodies could do to mine. I enjoyed my time with them because they let me make them laugh more than cum, make them feel safe more than desired. It was the wholly natural arm slipped into the crook of my elbow, the lingering hug, the eyes met and held, the often less-than-subtle kiss.
Take me with a kiss, and I'm yours forever.
I live for the physical. Things that make me feel good. I drink because I am so entirely in love with the atmosphere that comes with it. I write because I love to explore these worlds and touch the people who live there. I share the little things I write about you because I love the way they make you smile. I talk and tell jokes and spin tall tales because making the people I feel closest to laugh is my greatest gift, and my greatest joy.
When it comes right down to it, I'm an addict, and a fond kiss is my cocaine.
That's the thought that brings me out of myself each time I sink down. Each time those black moods settle over me like a pall. Each time I find myself sequestered away from the world because I've spent too many hours working and too few hours doing what I enjoy. Writing, drinking, being with good people. Kissing. Fucking like Caligula at an all-you-can-bang buffet of...vaginas, I guess. Horses or something. Fucking, is the important part of that.
I know, I just spent paragraphs talking about why the sex doesn't matter, but let's face it: the sex may not be necessary, but holy shit do we love sex.
On a less ridiculous note, while there are things I would keep private from the world I'm not opposed to being read like one of my stories. There are those among you that I would, and have, and do, share those deepest parts of me with. And while you may not have spent the waning hours of one or a hundred nights wrapped up with me, or danced slow circles in a dark, cramped, silent room, or kissed me just for the hell of it, there is something all of you have in common. It's affection, and I want to thank you for letting me show it. Because time and again it brings me back to the world, when I would much rather flee toward darkness.
Yours, Thank the Gods,
-S.R.
P.S.- I promise next time will be all naked legs and marching off to war. I'm not sure what's gotten into me with all this heartfelt stuff. I think I might actually be having those things women have. "Feelings?" Yeah, feelings. Usually this indicates I need to drink more. Or less. Either way, next entry will be all rape and pillage.
I've missed you of late, all of you. A strange thought came to me the other day. The first girl I ever kissed remains, to this day, one of my closest friends. One of those people nearest to my heart and fondest in my thoughts. The first girl I ever had sex with, on the other hand, has been gone since that night. Vanished with the full moon. An orgasm phantasm. I never learned her name, and I don't suspect I ever will.
Odd, for all my sexcapades, that it should suddenly occur to me that sex isn't my real goal in life. Oh, sure there is great fun to be had in flings. Great pleasure in the pursuit and capture of something you desire. There is something tantalizing about unattached physical delights. But then its gone, evaporated like so much water left in the August heat. Not that I haven't found lasting friendships arising from those heady moments, once the sweat has been washed away, the tangled sheets swapped out for new ones, and the concealing darkness traded for piercing daylight, the same woman whose throat was red in the shape of my clenching fingers just hours ago can trade witty banter and dirty jokes as if nothing happened. I've experienced that a handful of times and those friends are wonderful, bright people despite making the woeful, terrible mistake of being my friends.
No, I'm not even saying that I can't be close to someone and then have sex with them.
I'm saying the sex doesn't matter. Fuck me and leave me and I'll whistle my way through work tomorrow. Fuck me and stay and I'll bring you flowers when we meet for coffee. Either way, I'll be satisfied. You won't hurt me, I won't hurt you. We won't share any more of ourselves than we want to.
It isn't the sex that matters, its the affection. More specifically, physical affection.
The reason I remained close to those friends with whom I shared a bed, or became close afterward, was a matter of affection, rather than being hooked on what their bodies could do to mine. I enjoyed my time with them because they let me make them laugh more than cum, make them feel safe more than desired. It was the wholly natural arm slipped into the crook of my elbow, the lingering hug, the eyes met and held, the often less-than-subtle kiss.
Take me with a kiss, and I'm yours forever.
I live for the physical. Things that make me feel good. I drink because I am so entirely in love with the atmosphere that comes with it. I write because I love to explore these worlds and touch the people who live there. I share the little things I write about you because I love the way they make you smile. I talk and tell jokes and spin tall tales because making the people I feel closest to laugh is my greatest gift, and my greatest joy.
When it comes right down to it, I'm an addict, and a fond kiss is my cocaine.
That's the thought that brings me out of myself each time I sink down. Each time those black moods settle over me like a pall. Each time I find myself sequestered away from the world because I've spent too many hours working and too few hours doing what I enjoy. Writing, drinking, being with good people. Kissing. Fucking like Caligula at an all-you-can-bang buffet of...vaginas, I guess. Horses or something. Fucking, is the important part of that.
I know, I just spent paragraphs talking about why the sex doesn't matter, but let's face it: the sex may not be necessary, but holy shit do we love sex.
On a less ridiculous note, while there are things I would keep private from the world I'm not opposed to being read like one of my stories. There are those among you that I would, and have, and do, share those deepest parts of me with. And while you may not have spent the waning hours of one or a hundred nights wrapped up with me, or danced slow circles in a dark, cramped, silent room, or kissed me just for the hell of it, there is something all of you have in common. It's affection, and I want to thank you for letting me show it. Because time and again it brings me back to the world, when I would much rather flee toward darkness.
Yours, Thank the Gods,
-S.R.
P.S.- I promise next time will be all naked legs and marching off to war. I'm not sure what's gotten into me with all this heartfelt stuff. I think I might actually be having those things women have. "Feelings?" Yeah, feelings. Usually this indicates I need to drink more. Or less. Either way, next entry will be all rape and pillage.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
One Drunk Night Recalls Another
I'm drunk tonight and, as is so often the case, reminscing fondly of other nights I've spent in the same (or, at least, a similar) condition. I've been to bed already and found that every time I closed my eyes long enough to drift away, I'd smile. Half-conscious smiles, lips cocked slightly to the side against my pillow, accompanied by a low moan of contentment that bubbled out of my throat, muffled by my lips, and made me feel almost foolish. Almost. I'm drunk, after all.
I was thinking of you, naturally, and while all my memories of you are fond, drunk or otherwise, two in particular have stood out all night. They may be my favorites. Something I find odd, even now, as they're so wholly different from one another.
I recall the first acutely, though the details have become stretched through re-tellings and re-livings in the small number of years since the night it happened. I don't remember it so fondly for the experience of driving drunk (and needlessly, I might add) to the hospital or the sudden, chilly onsent of autumn in North Carolina that made me wish, as the hours went by and the booze began to wear off, that I'd brought along a jacket for you. I don't remember it so vividly because it was the first time I'd ever seen you cry and, amusingly enough, the first and, to my recollection, only time I've ever seen you naked.
No, the fondness of the memory only started with wandering in to find you fully dressed, and showering, when you were allegedly brushing your teeth. Finding myself in the shower with a beautiful woman in the middle of the night, still more than a little intoxicated, peeling off clothes to get at the monitors left adhered to your skin and thinking, vaguely, that in any other situation I'd be surely much more "clumsy" with my hands. The simplicity of crawling into a bed more suited fora toddler than two grown adults, the way you nestled between my body and the badly painted stone wall, curled up on my chest and fell asleep. That is the beauty of the night. That handful of minutes that crept into hours as I fell away from consciousness and woke to find you still there. Intimacy, whether romantic or platonic, has always been physical for me, despite my glibness of tongue and savvy wordsmithing. A touch, a look, is always more profound than the most heartfelt string of words. Hard to admit, but true.
Those hours of comfort, of trust, and closeness, are perhaps the most at peace I have ever felt.
The second night, I recall, ended with a scattered pile of my belongings tossed from a second-story window. I remember it not because I looked up at you, and at my clothes and assorted possessions tumbling haphazardly away from you, like a dumbfounded, jilted lover. I remember it for the look of pure mischievous amusement that remained on your face through it all. Clothes I don't ever remember giving to you and things I don't even recall fell away from your face until you disappeared from the window without a word.
I remember feeling a tumultuous mixture of laughter and fury, of confusion and sadness but, above all, a powerful desire to know what in the Nine Hells you were doing. I wanted to laugh and cry and slam my fists against the brick until I'd battered the walls down, or scale the building until I could crawl into your room and shake you until you answered my questions. Instead, I gathered my things and marched them back to my room. Until two days later when you arose and, laughing, took them back where they belonged.
I laid in bed tonight and thought of these things. Of dozens of talks, of six-hours walks that carried on into the encroaching dawn. Of four hour drives to a beach an hour and a half away and writing your name in the sand. Of horrendous downpours that struck the second we turned toward home. Of innuendo that slipped so easily between us, and long looks that convinced at least 800 people that we were bound to be crazy about each other.
I thought of them and felt a pain unlike anything I've ever felt before. A longing so powerful it hurled me out of bed and into my chair to write until it receeded like floodwaters in the weeks after a hurricane. Except it hasn't disappeared. I'm still here, 18 hours and hundreds of miles away, thinking and wondering.
And it suddenly occurs to me that it doesn't matter. The miles and the hours and the years between the nights I remember and tonight. It doesn't matter because the way I love you is so incomparable, so indestructible, that I never fear for a second that it might vanish alongside that longing. I may be wracked with the agony of being so far removed from all your waking moments, and I may tremble at the sheer depth of love I have for a friend, for a relationship that started with a pretty girl stealing my beer and, despite having no money and no beer left, not saying no because she seemed so earnest about wanting to try it for the first time.
I may feel those things, and all I'll do is smile. Because you are all the Order and the Chaos, the intimacy and the occasional fit of mischief, the bright things and the dimly remembered revelries, that make up what I love most in life. So another one for you, in this vast and multi-colored Rubix Cube.
Let's give them something to talk about.
Yours Always,
-S.R.
I was thinking of you, naturally, and while all my memories of you are fond, drunk or otherwise, two in particular have stood out all night. They may be my favorites. Something I find odd, even now, as they're so wholly different from one another.
I recall the first acutely, though the details have become stretched through re-tellings and re-livings in the small number of years since the night it happened. I don't remember it so fondly for the experience of driving drunk (and needlessly, I might add) to the hospital or the sudden, chilly onsent of autumn in North Carolina that made me wish, as the hours went by and the booze began to wear off, that I'd brought along a jacket for you. I don't remember it so vividly because it was the first time I'd ever seen you cry and, amusingly enough, the first and, to my recollection, only time I've ever seen you naked.
No, the fondness of the memory only started with wandering in to find you fully dressed, and showering, when you were allegedly brushing your teeth. Finding myself in the shower with a beautiful woman in the middle of the night, still more than a little intoxicated, peeling off clothes to get at the monitors left adhered to your skin and thinking, vaguely, that in any other situation I'd be surely much more "clumsy" with my hands. The simplicity of crawling into a bed more suited fora toddler than two grown adults, the way you nestled between my body and the badly painted stone wall, curled up on my chest and fell asleep. That is the beauty of the night. That handful of minutes that crept into hours as I fell away from consciousness and woke to find you still there. Intimacy, whether romantic or platonic, has always been physical for me, despite my glibness of tongue and savvy wordsmithing. A touch, a look, is always more profound than the most heartfelt string of words. Hard to admit, but true.
Those hours of comfort, of trust, and closeness, are perhaps the most at peace I have ever felt.
The second night, I recall, ended with a scattered pile of my belongings tossed from a second-story window. I remember it not because I looked up at you, and at my clothes and assorted possessions tumbling haphazardly away from you, like a dumbfounded, jilted lover. I remember it for the look of pure mischievous amusement that remained on your face through it all. Clothes I don't ever remember giving to you and things I don't even recall fell away from your face until you disappeared from the window without a word.
I remember feeling a tumultuous mixture of laughter and fury, of confusion and sadness but, above all, a powerful desire to know what in the Nine Hells you were doing. I wanted to laugh and cry and slam my fists against the brick until I'd battered the walls down, or scale the building until I could crawl into your room and shake you until you answered my questions. Instead, I gathered my things and marched them back to my room. Until two days later when you arose and, laughing, took them back where they belonged.
I laid in bed tonight and thought of these things. Of dozens of talks, of six-hours walks that carried on into the encroaching dawn. Of four hour drives to a beach an hour and a half away and writing your name in the sand. Of horrendous downpours that struck the second we turned toward home. Of innuendo that slipped so easily between us, and long looks that convinced at least 800 people that we were bound to be crazy about each other.
I thought of them and felt a pain unlike anything I've ever felt before. A longing so powerful it hurled me out of bed and into my chair to write until it receeded like floodwaters in the weeks after a hurricane. Except it hasn't disappeared. I'm still here, 18 hours and hundreds of miles away, thinking and wondering.
And it suddenly occurs to me that it doesn't matter. The miles and the hours and the years between the nights I remember and tonight. It doesn't matter because the way I love you is so incomparable, so indestructible, that I never fear for a second that it might vanish alongside that longing. I may be wracked with the agony of being so far removed from all your waking moments, and I may tremble at the sheer depth of love I have for a friend, for a relationship that started with a pretty girl stealing my beer and, despite having no money and no beer left, not saying no because she seemed so earnest about wanting to try it for the first time.
I may feel those things, and all I'll do is smile. Because you are all the Order and the Chaos, the intimacy and the occasional fit of mischief, the bright things and the dimly remembered revelries, that make up what I love most in life. So another one for you, in this vast and multi-colored Rubix Cube.
Let's give them something to talk about.
Yours Always,
-S.R.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
What You Do To Me
Jubilant does not begin to describe me. Ebullience does not scratch the surface of this. I am joy uncontained, passion unbridled, desire immeasurable. I am vast beyond comprehension and strength beyond comparison. I am powerful and raw, a seething mass of potential that grows only stronger, larger. I am unimaginable destruction and insurmountable benevolence. I am one, I am all, I'm Above and Beyond.
You can't see me, feel me, touch me. You can't hope to encompass, envelope something so tremendous with simple sense and sensation. A shiver running along the length of me would race forever in every direction. My pleasure is supreme, my pain is ultimate. You would look on me in awe, and tremble at the thought.
You would bow and beg, all of you who could stop the shaking long enough to move, to utter a single word. If you could see the way I feel tonight, you would flee in terror. You would burst into flames. You would fall in love so deep it would drown you. I am the center of all things, the creator and destroyer of all things.
Come live with me and be my love.
I have found, in these far-off, dreaming days, that I am insanity made flesh. I am love, given birth. I am wrath brought to life. I am a series of concepts, vague and powerful emotions. I am a creature of pure desires, consciousness of thought, awareness of action.
I could tear you to pieces, shred your flesh and crack your bones, peel the very fibers of your body apart with my bare hands. I relish that knowledge, that power. I am alive with it. Aroused by it.
I could bring you to a climax so severe, the aftershocks would topple cities. The flood would drown nations. Your voice would lift and crack, lilting into octaves beyond hearing, and deafen entire civilizations. Your body would spasm, so close to eruption, that Pompeii would cower and know it was on the cusp of death.
I could fill your heart with such reverence, such adoration, that it would hammer against your breast like a madman, like an army of madmen, raging to be let free. I could paint such innocent, pure affection on your face that all who looked upon you would gasp at how completely you love me.
I could burn all the worlds in the cosmos to ashes.
I am ineffable, intangible. Blinding brilliance, haunting darkness. Triumphant and defeated. Derelict, monolithic. I am multitudes and contradictions. Fragile and indestructible. I am a paradox of simple complications.
Come live with me and be my love.
I will poison you with poetry to leech the venom from your veins. I will siphon all the vileness and swallow it, let the infections fester in my guts and rot the flesh away. I will turn the light on all your darkness and devour your despair. I'll wrap these monstrous hands in you and strangle all your demons. You came into this world without them, and without them you will leave it.
I am not Salvation, she has danced out of my reach. I am not Redemption, she has flitted out of sight. I am not here to save you from the fear, or greif, or pain. I am here to hold you when the weight becomes too great. I am here to kill those things, should ever they arise, and show their twisted heads so that my blade may truly strike. I will protect you, when I can, whether with violence or with love. I will destroy you, if I have to, and I will pick the pieces up.
You are more than I can ask for, and more than I can be, though I am vast and infinite, omnipotent. Insignificant. I can burn the worlds to dust, but only you can show me life. I was made to do this thing, to belong to you.
Come live with me and be my love.
Unflinchingly Yours,
-S.R.
You can't see me, feel me, touch me. You can't hope to encompass, envelope something so tremendous with simple sense and sensation. A shiver running along the length of me would race forever in every direction. My pleasure is supreme, my pain is ultimate. You would look on me in awe, and tremble at the thought.
You would bow and beg, all of you who could stop the shaking long enough to move, to utter a single word. If you could see the way I feel tonight, you would flee in terror. You would burst into flames. You would fall in love so deep it would drown you. I am the center of all things, the creator and destroyer of all things.
Come live with me and be my love.
I have found, in these far-off, dreaming days, that I am insanity made flesh. I am love, given birth. I am wrath brought to life. I am a series of concepts, vague and powerful emotions. I am a creature of pure desires, consciousness of thought, awareness of action.
I could tear you to pieces, shred your flesh and crack your bones, peel the very fibers of your body apart with my bare hands. I relish that knowledge, that power. I am alive with it. Aroused by it.
I could bring you to a climax so severe, the aftershocks would topple cities. The flood would drown nations. Your voice would lift and crack, lilting into octaves beyond hearing, and deafen entire civilizations. Your body would spasm, so close to eruption, that Pompeii would cower and know it was on the cusp of death.
I could fill your heart with such reverence, such adoration, that it would hammer against your breast like a madman, like an army of madmen, raging to be let free. I could paint such innocent, pure affection on your face that all who looked upon you would gasp at how completely you love me.
I could burn all the worlds in the cosmos to ashes.
I am ineffable, intangible. Blinding brilliance, haunting darkness. Triumphant and defeated. Derelict, monolithic. I am multitudes and contradictions. Fragile and indestructible. I am a paradox of simple complications.
Come live with me and be my love.
I will poison you with poetry to leech the venom from your veins. I will siphon all the vileness and swallow it, let the infections fester in my guts and rot the flesh away. I will turn the light on all your darkness and devour your despair. I'll wrap these monstrous hands in you and strangle all your demons. You came into this world without them, and without them you will leave it.
I am not Salvation, she has danced out of my reach. I am not Redemption, she has flitted out of sight. I am not here to save you from the fear, or greif, or pain. I am here to hold you when the weight becomes too great. I am here to kill those things, should ever they arise, and show their twisted heads so that my blade may truly strike. I will protect you, when I can, whether with violence or with love. I will destroy you, if I have to, and I will pick the pieces up.
You are more than I can ask for, and more than I can be, though I am vast and infinite, omnipotent. Insignificant. I can burn the worlds to dust, but only you can show me life. I was made to do this thing, to belong to you.
Come live with me and be my love.
Unflinchingly Yours,
-S.R.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
(Re)Occuring
I awoke from a dead sleep to the sound of screams, and reached for my sword. Sheets, sweat-soaked, tangled my legs as I scrambled out of bed, hunting furiously in the dark for my weapon. I cocked my head, listening as I fumbled in the pitch black. The scream echoed, but only in my mind, as if she screamed from across a chasm that existed only in my head. In a few moments, even the echo died away and it ocurred to me that I don't have a sword. I'm not wrapped in a bedroll, sleeping beneath the stars in my boots. I'm not being pursued. I'm standing in my bedroom, naked, breathing hard, and trying to decide when the characters I created became such a part of me that I shared their nightmares.
I awoke from a dead sleep and reached for you. I don't know what roused me. The house is silent, no vivid flashes of memory assail me. Not even the foggy idea of a dream gives me indication as to why I woke. I reach for you anyway, sure that whatever startled me out of sleep threatens you. I know I placed my body between it and you, sleeping at the edge of the bed furthest from the wall, just in case. The bed beside me is empty, save for pillows I've scattered in my restless sleep, a comforter I tore off at some point to alleviate the stiffling heat of the August night. Then it ocurred to me that this is ridiculous. Why should I wake and leap to protect you? Why should that be instinctual? You've never been here, never slept beside me. We've hardly met, and yet, I'm grasping for you in the darkness to reassure myself I haven't failed to keep you safe.
Sometimes, I like to gaze at my reflection long enough that it appears to be someone else. Like a word you repeat over and over until it loses its meaning, becomes so many impotent syllables. I think there's freedom in that breif span of meaningless words, a power to make them mean whatever you wish. I like to stare at my reflection until it becomes someone else, so I can create something attractive about myself. I admire the supple, full lips, so uncharacteristically soft. The promiment tone of biceps and legs thich with corded muscle. I find myself wondering about the eyes first blue, then green, then grey and back again. I wonder what thoughts they conceal, what they might convey with a look, what I might find about the man who belongs to those eyes if I just studied them a bit longer. I want to touch him and be touched, and it occurs to me that I can finally relate to all the people that have let me capture them in little glass jars and sit them on my shelves.
Sometimes I like to stare at the world. I like to watch, for hours, as the sun creeps overhead, changing shadows in its arc, spilling golden, ambient light first here, then there. I like to watch where the sun alights, as it warms the verdant leaves and grasses of these rural towns or sends streaks of fading light dancing across waves crashing onto an empty beach. A human interaction will spoil my study, but that so rarely happens. It occurs to me that the world, on its own, is a vastly more full place when it is emptied of mankind.
It occurs to me I'm not fond of the word 'occurs'.
I've been thinking and I realize I want to feel skin against mine. I want to feel lips. Hungry, insatiable lips. I want to kiss and be kissed, to feel another body pressed into me, strategically placed. Where my hands cup her cheeks, my thumbs roving up the curve of her ears. Where her breasts are flattened against my chest, soft supple skin pushing against me, a pleasant weight, just enough to get my heart beating. Her hips, just barely grazing mine, her legs wandering up and down my own, crossing each other at the ankles, brushing at the thighs, calves, toes. I want to feel her hands on my back, each fingertip a seperate point of gentle pleasure. I have never kissed a woman without craving her fingers on my naked back, kneading the muscles between my shoulders as if those ten points of contact could somehow give her more of me.
I want to sink into her slowly, without all the tearing of flesh, the clenching of teeth, the low, rumbling rage in the throat that so often accompanies these flashes of eroticism. I can see her hips rising, just slightly, to meet me. A hint of impatience. One bare, shapely leg wrapping around my waist, pulling, just a suggestion of desire. I can see my hand, absent-mindedly holding that leg from beneath, as if supporting what she wants. A promise of an ecstasy that is as slow and deliberate in arriving as it is certain to arrive.
I can see her body, littered with kisses. The hardly visible glistening of sweat and saliva on her skin. Eyes fluttering closed. A soft, almost inaudible sigh escapes her open mouth, rolls over my lips and into mine as if a part of her is inside me at the moment before she's wrapped around me completely.
In time, I'm sure, I'll awake from this. Perhaps reaching for a sword or an absent, half-imagined lover. Perhaps with fingers turned to claws and teeth to fangs that will seek to tear flesh, shed blood, degrade and destroy. To bring pain like only the Sadist in me can imagine. But it occurs to me that this, this brief and ultimately meaningless fantasy, is more and more a reflection I've stared at long enough to make it mean anything.
Thoughtfully Yours,
-S.R.
I awoke from a dead sleep and reached for you. I don't know what roused me. The house is silent, no vivid flashes of memory assail me. Not even the foggy idea of a dream gives me indication as to why I woke. I reach for you anyway, sure that whatever startled me out of sleep threatens you. I know I placed my body between it and you, sleeping at the edge of the bed furthest from the wall, just in case. The bed beside me is empty, save for pillows I've scattered in my restless sleep, a comforter I tore off at some point to alleviate the stiffling heat of the August night. Then it ocurred to me that this is ridiculous. Why should I wake and leap to protect you? Why should that be instinctual? You've never been here, never slept beside me. We've hardly met, and yet, I'm grasping for you in the darkness to reassure myself I haven't failed to keep you safe.
Sometimes, I like to gaze at my reflection long enough that it appears to be someone else. Like a word you repeat over and over until it loses its meaning, becomes so many impotent syllables. I think there's freedom in that breif span of meaningless words, a power to make them mean whatever you wish. I like to stare at my reflection until it becomes someone else, so I can create something attractive about myself. I admire the supple, full lips, so uncharacteristically soft. The promiment tone of biceps and legs thich with corded muscle. I find myself wondering about the eyes first blue, then green, then grey and back again. I wonder what thoughts they conceal, what they might convey with a look, what I might find about the man who belongs to those eyes if I just studied them a bit longer. I want to touch him and be touched, and it occurs to me that I can finally relate to all the people that have let me capture them in little glass jars and sit them on my shelves.
Sometimes I like to stare at the world. I like to watch, for hours, as the sun creeps overhead, changing shadows in its arc, spilling golden, ambient light first here, then there. I like to watch where the sun alights, as it warms the verdant leaves and grasses of these rural towns or sends streaks of fading light dancing across waves crashing onto an empty beach. A human interaction will spoil my study, but that so rarely happens. It occurs to me that the world, on its own, is a vastly more full place when it is emptied of mankind.
It occurs to me I'm not fond of the word 'occurs'.
I've been thinking and I realize I want to feel skin against mine. I want to feel lips. Hungry, insatiable lips. I want to kiss and be kissed, to feel another body pressed into me, strategically placed. Where my hands cup her cheeks, my thumbs roving up the curve of her ears. Where her breasts are flattened against my chest, soft supple skin pushing against me, a pleasant weight, just enough to get my heart beating. Her hips, just barely grazing mine, her legs wandering up and down my own, crossing each other at the ankles, brushing at the thighs, calves, toes. I want to feel her hands on my back, each fingertip a seperate point of gentle pleasure. I have never kissed a woman without craving her fingers on my naked back, kneading the muscles between my shoulders as if those ten points of contact could somehow give her more of me.
I want to sink into her slowly, without all the tearing of flesh, the clenching of teeth, the low, rumbling rage in the throat that so often accompanies these flashes of eroticism. I can see her hips rising, just slightly, to meet me. A hint of impatience. One bare, shapely leg wrapping around my waist, pulling, just a suggestion of desire. I can see my hand, absent-mindedly holding that leg from beneath, as if supporting what she wants. A promise of an ecstasy that is as slow and deliberate in arriving as it is certain to arrive.
I can see her body, littered with kisses. The hardly visible glistening of sweat and saliva on her skin. Eyes fluttering closed. A soft, almost inaudible sigh escapes her open mouth, rolls over my lips and into mine as if a part of her is inside me at the moment before she's wrapped around me completely.
In time, I'm sure, I'll awake from this. Perhaps reaching for a sword or an absent, half-imagined lover. Perhaps with fingers turned to claws and teeth to fangs that will seek to tear flesh, shed blood, degrade and destroy. To bring pain like only the Sadist in me can imagine. But it occurs to me that this, this brief and ultimately meaningless fantasy, is more and more a reflection I've stared at long enough to make it mean anything.
Thoughtfully Yours,
-S.R.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Fear of Desire
I'm conflicted, two sides of a very different argument and both of me at odds with me. Its an unusual situation I usually find myself in, bounding between two thoughts and never quite certain one appeals to me more than another. On one hand, I find myself wondering (adorably, I might add) about finding that special someone. That person we're all supposed to find and settle with. Presumably after a string of failed, violent relationships. You can't find what you aren't looking for, after all. I have always imagined that would be my course one day. I set out on this journey and, at its end, I find a home.
I enjoy relationships, in a very general sense. I enjoy the camaraderie, the closeness, the comfort. Feeling as if I can make a fool of myself saying silly things in silly voices and be taken as affectionately as if I were actually something cute, not something with rusted edges and ragged scars. I enjoy delving into another human being and finding things in there, little things to be enamored with. Subtle details, like the way she breathes when she's on the cusp of sleep. Or how she came to know her favorite flower. Each of these experiences is novel, and they never lose their appeal to me. That exploration is what I crave, the satisfaction of my curiosities is so complete. Few things, I find, compare to turning a new lover into something more substantial.
Then again, I disagree.
I have not tired of my petty perversions, the potential I've wasted on country diversions, perfecting the art of coersion, the diversions from the normal, natural flow of things. I relish each new challenge, not as a conqueror relishes his victory, but more akin to the way a particularly loyal servant enjoys pleasing his master. Even when I'm playing the master.
I long for attachment, but find attraction much more gratifying. I crave affection, but I pursue attention with nary an intention to linger. I slip in and out of lives, appearing, penetrating, vanishing. Never cruel, never unkind. I'm sort of ethereal, sort of ephemeral, preternaturally adept at spinning and spinning, spying a prize and making it mine, then flitting away before daylight reveals me. There are ugly, callous things in me that I would not share. I don't leave for fear of becoming attached, for fear of committing, but for fear of rejection. Of mistaken identity.
I've played the white knight so many times, I almost believed it was true. I almost fell for my own prowess, almost knew the festering, derelict parts of me were gone, evaporated like so much sweat in the August sun.
Maybe it isn't a desire for new lovers, new lusts, to replace the old that drives me, then. Maybe its that aversion to being seen for what I am, instead of simply who I've shown.
But then, trepidation wouldn't fill my head with long, supple legs or painted toenails, toes curled, ankles dressed in thin, silver chains, abdomens glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, the heady smell of desire, the enticing lock of eyes, the shock of sudden pleasure, fingertips piercing the flesh on my back, as if trying to peel the skin from the bones, trying to hook themselves into my muscles and hold on for dear life. Fear wouldn't fill my head with these things.
And when it comes right down to it, I'm never really rejected. I've never felt that cold emptiness, the hollow clang as the golden gates slam shut, barring me entrance. No, I'm much too clever for that. I will bring you to the edge, I will walk you to the precipice and, just before you push me over, I'll pull you back from that place and show you something warmer. Something you've wanted to see, something I've saved for just such an occasion. All the while unconscious of my own actions, conscious only of the way they move you. I'm unintentionally profound, accidentally touching.
Purposefully, forcefully arousing.
I aim to please you in ways that will leave you devestated. Catatonic. I will secret myself behind jokes and self-deprecation, and when you've fallen for that charm I'll have my prey. When next I inhale, your nerves will tremble of their own accord. Cognitive thought will jumble in your throat, choke you, until every breath is a gasp. Every impulse, every synapse, fires contiguously until your brain is a mess of mashed wants and spasms. I'll breathe in that scent, that sated phermone, and grow stronger. I'll be a fucking orgasm vampire.
And then I'll fly away before you regain your senses. Before what just happened dawns on you. Because now you've seen me exposed, you've seen me vulnerable and afraid, uncertain and absolutely in control. You've seen what I can do, and what I fear most. You've seen all the things that lurk around the dark corners in me, and all the things that hide because they're frail and easily startled. The sinister and the sincere. The loathing and the loving. In the span of a few dizzying seconds, you've seen all there is to see.
And if you're out for revenge, I'm much to ripe for the feast.
Terrifyingly Yours,
-S.R.
I enjoy relationships, in a very general sense. I enjoy the camaraderie, the closeness, the comfort. Feeling as if I can make a fool of myself saying silly things in silly voices and be taken as affectionately as if I were actually something cute, not something with rusted edges and ragged scars. I enjoy delving into another human being and finding things in there, little things to be enamored with. Subtle details, like the way she breathes when she's on the cusp of sleep. Or how she came to know her favorite flower. Each of these experiences is novel, and they never lose their appeal to me. That exploration is what I crave, the satisfaction of my curiosities is so complete. Few things, I find, compare to turning a new lover into something more substantial.
Then again, I disagree.
I have not tired of my petty perversions, the potential I've wasted on country diversions, perfecting the art of coersion, the diversions from the normal, natural flow of things. I relish each new challenge, not as a conqueror relishes his victory, but more akin to the way a particularly loyal servant enjoys pleasing his master. Even when I'm playing the master.
I long for attachment, but find attraction much more gratifying. I crave affection, but I pursue attention with nary an intention to linger. I slip in and out of lives, appearing, penetrating, vanishing. Never cruel, never unkind. I'm sort of ethereal, sort of ephemeral, preternaturally adept at spinning and spinning, spying a prize and making it mine, then flitting away before daylight reveals me. There are ugly, callous things in me that I would not share. I don't leave for fear of becoming attached, for fear of committing, but for fear of rejection. Of mistaken identity.
I've played the white knight so many times, I almost believed it was true. I almost fell for my own prowess, almost knew the festering, derelict parts of me were gone, evaporated like so much sweat in the August sun.
Maybe it isn't a desire for new lovers, new lusts, to replace the old that drives me, then. Maybe its that aversion to being seen for what I am, instead of simply who I've shown.
But then, trepidation wouldn't fill my head with long, supple legs or painted toenails, toes curled, ankles dressed in thin, silver chains, abdomens glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, the heady smell of desire, the enticing lock of eyes, the shock of sudden pleasure, fingertips piercing the flesh on my back, as if trying to peel the skin from the bones, trying to hook themselves into my muscles and hold on for dear life. Fear wouldn't fill my head with these things.
And when it comes right down to it, I'm never really rejected. I've never felt that cold emptiness, the hollow clang as the golden gates slam shut, barring me entrance. No, I'm much too clever for that. I will bring you to the edge, I will walk you to the precipice and, just before you push me over, I'll pull you back from that place and show you something warmer. Something you've wanted to see, something I've saved for just such an occasion. All the while unconscious of my own actions, conscious only of the way they move you. I'm unintentionally profound, accidentally touching.
Purposefully, forcefully arousing.
I aim to please you in ways that will leave you devestated. Catatonic. I will secret myself behind jokes and self-deprecation, and when you've fallen for that charm I'll have my prey. When next I inhale, your nerves will tremble of their own accord. Cognitive thought will jumble in your throat, choke you, until every breath is a gasp. Every impulse, every synapse, fires contiguously until your brain is a mess of mashed wants and spasms. I'll breathe in that scent, that sated phermone, and grow stronger. I'll be a fucking orgasm vampire.
And then I'll fly away before you regain your senses. Before what just happened dawns on you. Because now you've seen me exposed, you've seen me vulnerable and afraid, uncertain and absolutely in control. You've seen what I can do, and what I fear most. You've seen all the things that lurk around the dark corners in me, and all the things that hide because they're frail and easily startled. The sinister and the sincere. The loathing and the loving. In the span of a few dizzying seconds, you've seen all there is to see.
And if you're out for revenge, I'm much to ripe for the feast.
Terrifyingly Yours,
-S.R.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Some Kind of Monster
Full disclosure,this isn't going to be pretty.
I'm dangling perilously close to one of those black moods that have, by now, become so infamous. The long, silent weeks have taken their toll. I find loneliness always seems to hasten my descent down that road. It leaves me too much time to reflect, and I have never cared much for what I see in the mirror. I suppose my own actions are to blame here. It isn't as if everyone else dropped off the face of the earth. I've exiled myself and, having faced what I'm trapped here with, I've changed my mind. I want to go back. I don't like exploring this place. Nothing about it appeals to me. Everything here is malodorous and black, as if covered by a thick coat of tar like the inside of my lungs. Nothing is substantial, but everything roils and shifts, churning like the poisoned guts of a leper. It reeks of rage and death and cruelty. Part of my feels at home, the rest is all revulsion.
I have, however, discovered some truths, albeit not desirable ones.
The first, is that I will never be as attached to you as we'd both like to believe. Don't get me wrong, it isn't for lack of intention, nor desire. I want to paint portaits of your body with words. I want to sing your beauty until the words have died away, the notes themselves have unraveled, the tune fades into legend. I want to create a goddess of you, of all of you. I'd show you all my secret places, share all the things I love most about this sprawling world and all the worlds I've created. I want these things more than I can conjure, and I will lead you to believe it. I will, myself, believe it. And once you've exhausted me, once I have given you all there is for one person to give to another, I will move on. I will never cry for you, I will never pine for you. One day, you'll just be gone. And nothing will have changed in me.
I don't fear that, that false sense of attachment. I don't fear the damage it will do when you come to realize that, when all is said and done, one day you'll mean less than nothing to me, as so many others have. I don't even fear that you will only ever love me for the things I can give you, and not for what stands behind them, cowering from the light, covering the ugly things with good intentions. My fear, is that you'll lash out at me when you reach this epiphany. I'm afraid, because I know I would destroy you.
That was my second truth. I am significantly more dangerous than you have been led to believe. I will give you all, in some sense of the word. I will twist and bend, will leap and sing and write and laugh and drink. I will be everything you desire. You'll fall for me. Not because I want you to, necessarily, but because I need you to. I will come to love you, and I will need that love reciprocated. I can make that happen. Love is all a matter of wit and charm, the right conditions, the proper sweetness, seasoned to taste. Every love is different, every one is a challenge, and I have never failed. I will turn your thoughts to me, turn you feelings tender, and then I'll have you.
I'll never try to harm you. As I said, I am all of good intentions. I'll never lie, never strike harshly. I'll bring you smiles and laughter, I'll bring fire and lightning to your nerves, until your every physical urge is for my touch. I'll drive you mad with desire. You'll adore me the way I need to be adored. I will live and breathe to satisfy you, until the day you turn me loose.
Until the day you try to hurt me.
It isn't a matter of thought, but reflex. You'll land the first blow, and every one after that will shatter you further. The great, dormant beast of my wrath will rise up and crush your bones to glittering dust. I'll rend your flesh and spatter the sky with your intestines. I'll paint mountains red with your blood. I won't rest until there is nothing left of you but pain. Until your stripped and battered, raped again and again. I will wring the life from your throat and feed on it for the simple, treacherous hunger to watch something suffer. I won't allow you to harm me, and therefore you have to die.
The shadow of this rage will darken your world, and all who come before it will tremble in fear. Nothing grows, nothing flourishes. The inky black will settle over those fertile plains where you spent all your happiest moments until all is coated in tar and reeking of decay. I'll weep then, knowing what I've done to you. I'll cry because I never wanted to bring you anything but joy, but pleasure. I won't cry at the scars I leave behind, I'll hardly notice those you've left on me, save to pick the scabs on occasion. I never really heal, never really tire of watching blood pool from my broken skin and flow down into the earth. The wounds aren't deep, though. Not deep enough to cause me any discomfort.
I will move on, then. And nothing in me will have changed.
There's not enough left alive in there to change.
Fundamentally, Loathsomely Yours,
-S.R.
I'm dangling perilously close to one of those black moods that have, by now, become so infamous. The long, silent weeks have taken their toll. I find loneliness always seems to hasten my descent down that road. It leaves me too much time to reflect, and I have never cared much for what I see in the mirror. I suppose my own actions are to blame here. It isn't as if everyone else dropped off the face of the earth. I've exiled myself and, having faced what I'm trapped here with, I've changed my mind. I want to go back. I don't like exploring this place. Nothing about it appeals to me. Everything here is malodorous and black, as if covered by a thick coat of tar like the inside of my lungs. Nothing is substantial, but everything roils and shifts, churning like the poisoned guts of a leper. It reeks of rage and death and cruelty. Part of my feels at home, the rest is all revulsion.
I have, however, discovered some truths, albeit not desirable ones.
The first, is that I will never be as attached to you as we'd both like to believe. Don't get me wrong, it isn't for lack of intention, nor desire. I want to paint portaits of your body with words. I want to sing your beauty until the words have died away, the notes themselves have unraveled, the tune fades into legend. I want to create a goddess of you, of all of you. I'd show you all my secret places, share all the things I love most about this sprawling world and all the worlds I've created. I want these things more than I can conjure, and I will lead you to believe it. I will, myself, believe it. And once you've exhausted me, once I have given you all there is for one person to give to another, I will move on. I will never cry for you, I will never pine for you. One day, you'll just be gone. And nothing will have changed in me.
I don't fear that, that false sense of attachment. I don't fear the damage it will do when you come to realize that, when all is said and done, one day you'll mean less than nothing to me, as so many others have. I don't even fear that you will only ever love me for the things I can give you, and not for what stands behind them, cowering from the light, covering the ugly things with good intentions. My fear, is that you'll lash out at me when you reach this epiphany. I'm afraid, because I know I would destroy you.
That was my second truth. I am significantly more dangerous than you have been led to believe. I will give you all, in some sense of the word. I will twist and bend, will leap and sing and write and laugh and drink. I will be everything you desire. You'll fall for me. Not because I want you to, necessarily, but because I need you to. I will come to love you, and I will need that love reciprocated. I can make that happen. Love is all a matter of wit and charm, the right conditions, the proper sweetness, seasoned to taste. Every love is different, every one is a challenge, and I have never failed. I will turn your thoughts to me, turn you feelings tender, and then I'll have you.
I'll never try to harm you. As I said, I am all of good intentions. I'll never lie, never strike harshly. I'll bring you smiles and laughter, I'll bring fire and lightning to your nerves, until your every physical urge is for my touch. I'll drive you mad with desire. You'll adore me the way I need to be adored. I will live and breathe to satisfy you, until the day you turn me loose.
Until the day you try to hurt me.
It isn't a matter of thought, but reflex. You'll land the first blow, and every one after that will shatter you further. The great, dormant beast of my wrath will rise up and crush your bones to glittering dust. I'll rend your flesh and spatter the sky with your intestines. I'll paint mountains red with your blood. I won't rest until there is nothing left of you but pain. Until your stripped and battered, raped again and again. I will wring the life from your throat and feed on it for the simple, treacherous hunger to watch something suffer. I won't allow you to harm me, and therefore you have to die.
The shadow of this rage will darken your world, and all who come before it will tremble in fear. Nothing grows, nothing flourishes. The inky black will settle over those fertile plains where you spent all your happiest moments until all is coated in tar and reeking of decay. I'll weep then, knowing what I've done to you. I'll cry because I never wanted to bring you anything but joy, but pleasure. I won't cry at the scars I leave behind, I'll hardly notice those you've left on me, save to pick the scabs on occasion. I never really heal, never really tire of watching blood pool from my broken skin and flow down into the earth. The wounds aren't deep, though. Not deep enough to cause me any discomfort.
I will move on, then. And nothing in me will have changed.
There's not enough left alive in there to change.
Fundamentally, Loathsomely Yours,
-S.R.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Magnetic Presence, or, Magnificent Ass
She crashes over me like thirty-foot swells, battering aside my defenses like weather-worn, wooden palisades in a hurricane and I, tossed and turned by undertows, have managed to talk her out of drowning me. For the moment. Her tempers, I gather, are gathering tempests. She soothes and rages like Zeboim. She's a force of nature, beauty embodied in power. She'll leave me with scars if I'm careful and shattered, mercilessly, against a cliffside if I'm not. Though I've stayed afloat thus far by strength of will and crafty plays of word, it can't be long before my awe distracts me, and I drown.
Saying I want her is like saying the sun is bright. It is something that can't be quantified, unless broken into such minute detail it becomes hardly worth saying. I, by merely existing, want her. It is a simple truth, a physical characteristic, like the brightness of the sun. Something that just is.
Perhaps the sea salt in my blood has saved me, or the ocean air that clings to my lungs, trapped there as I am trapped, not unwillingly, in this current. I have never felt comfortable being too far from the ocean, more than a few hours drive to the coast and I grow listless, as if part of me is somewhere out of reach.
She is like that. Out of reach, unattainable, untouchable. On a plane somewhere beyond mere mortal perception. I feel as if some cosmic tear has been created, some rend in the membranous tissue between worlds, at even being able to glimpse her as she rolls over me. I would reach through, and run my fingers through her hair, but I'm afraid my flesh would simply cease to exist in such a place. We often glorify the object of our affection, but this feels less like desire, and more like a gift. The gods, it seems, are as infinte in their mercy as they are in humor.
I feel drawn in two directions, torn between dancing this silver-tongue dance, continuing to pirouette, to spin and leap until breath escapes me and I fall, panting, or dead, to the stage. Torn between letting the words that swell and churn within me continue to pour outward and stepping through that span between worlds and seizing her in my arms.
My fear then, is not that I would die in the passage, but what I would do once I laid hands upon her.
I could not shred such a creature, even should I be granted the power to tear waves from the sea. I could not sink my claws into her flesh, tearing into limbs and devouring her as I have so often done. Nor could I surrender entirely, give up the power I've craved and killed for, and allow her to devour me as so many have tried. I would wage a war within myself, then, a war without end.
I would relish every second.
She bursts in my imagination, a star going supernova. She could swallow everything in her path with pure, destructive energy, but she prefers to create like some goddess, bounding effortlessly from world to world and planting seeds on each, leaving behind roses and tigerlillies, flowering in the mid-afternoon sun. Each of them a garden, each of them teeming with lives.
Perhaps I have gone too far in a strange direction, now. From characterizing concepts as feminine entities to creating a concept of a woman, but I see little difference. She radiates, and I am pulled into her orbit, seized by gravity or something less substantial and more imagined. Something very akin to affection, but infinitely more vast.
Perhaps I've inhaled entirely too much water.
In time, I'm sure, it will rust my gleaming, steel armor. Cause my, admittedly golden, heart to decay, tarnish my silver tongue. The sea will come to claim me and I will go along with it. As I said, I have never felt right being too far from it.
Until then, I will have her, in this world or some other. In one capacity or another. I will wrap her in arms of flesh or of letters, and let her drift away on lilting lines of poetry or fall asleep on the rocking, steady beat of my heart in her ear. I will pour kisses across her naked skin like sweet, warm rain in late June, or I will spill out pages of sweet nothings, little nonsenses to coax a smile to her lips. And I will bask in that glow, from near or afar, as the tides may take us both, until the ocean claims my body, and the gods of this world or the next claim the soul.
Delightfully Yours,
-S.R.
Saying I want her is like saying the sun is bright. It is something that can't be quantified, unless broken into such minute detail it becomes hardly worth saying. I, by merely existing, want her. It is a simple truth, a physical characteristic, like the brightness of the sun. Something that just is.
Perhaps the sea salt in my blood has saved me, or the ocean air that clings to my lungs, trapped there as I am trapped, not unwillingly, in this current. I have never felt comfortable being too far from the ocean, more than a few hours drive to the coast and I grow listless, as if part of me is somewhere out of reach.
She is like that. Out of reach, unattainable, untouchable. On a plane somewhere beyond mere mortal perception. I feel as if some cosmic tear has been created, some rend in the membranous tissue between worlds, at even being able to glimpse her as she rolls over me. I would reach through, and run my fingers through her hair, but I'm afraid my flesh would simply cease to exist in such a place. We often glorify the object of our affection, but this feels less like desire, and more like a gift. The gods, it seems, are as infinte in their mercy as they are in humor.
I feel drawn in two directions, torn between dancing this silver-tongue dance, continuing to pirouette, to spin and leap until breath escapes me and I fall, panting, or dead, to the stage. Torn between letting the words that swell and churn within me continue to pour outward and stepping through that span between worlds and seizing her in my arms.
My fear then, is not that I would die in the passage, but what I would do once I laid hands upon her.
I could not shred such a creature, even should I be granted the power to tear waves from the sea. I could not sink my claws into her flesh, tearing into limbs and devouring her as I have so often done. Nor could I surrender entirely, give up the power I've craved and killed for, and allow her to devour me as so many have tried. I would wage a war within myself, then, a war without end.
I would relish every second.
She bursts in my imagination, a star going supernova. She could swallow everything in her path with pure, destructive energy, but she prefers to create like some goddess, bounding effortlessly from world to world and planting seeds on each, leaving behind roses and tigerlillies, flowering in the mid-afternoon sun. Each of them a garden, each of them teeming with lives.
Perhaps I have gone too far in a strange direction, now. From characterizing concepts as feminine entities to creating a concept of a woman, but I see little difference. She radiates, and I am pulled into her orbit, seized by gravity or something less substantial and more imagined. Something very akin to affection, but infinitely more vast.
Perhaps I've inhaled entirely too much water.
In time, I'm sure, it will rust my gleaming, steel armor. Cause my, admittedly golden, heart to decay, tarnish my silver tongue. The sea will come to claim me and I will go along with it. As I said, I have never felt right being too far from it.
Until then, I will have her, in this world or some other. In one capacity or another. I will wrap her in arms of flesh or of letters, and let her drift away on lilting lines of poetry or fall asleep on the rocking, steady beat of my heart in her ear. I will pour kisses across her naked skin like sweet, warm rain in late June, or I will spill out pages of sweet nothings, little nonsenses to coax a smile to her lips. And I will bask in that glow, from near or afar, as the tides may take us both, until the ocean claims my body, and the gods of this world or the next claim the soul.
Delightfully Yours,
-S.R.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Wound Round in Desire
I'm rapaciously salacious, tenaciously ostentatious. Every appetite voraciously edacious. I'm flirtatiously audacious, but fugacious as pages are capacious and calling me ungracious would be fallacious, then my outer skin's testaceous and setaceous but by nature I'm veracious and pugnacious, loquacious to make you sequacious, not mendacious though I'm hellaciously predacious and you're so damn curvaceous, those lips so vinaceous, that scent all rosaceous, you're down right bodacious.
How many adjectives can I rhyme? Throw in adverbs to add words to keep track of lost time. If I've spilled a million words in working spurts to earn my way, that's fine, because every spot of ink is worth the world to get inside.
I want you, is what I'm saying.
I'm all desires, the older I get the more I realize it. The only things that speak to me are needs and cravings, and while I'm all for the taking, I'd rather be given. You drive me mad with things I've never understood, and set me ablaze just by knowing that you could. You could reach through my pores and hook your fingers in my veins, shred my failing organs and claw your way into my brain, in turn I'd write you symphonies and shriek the verses all delirium. I'd kiss you but the kiss would be a thousand bolts of lightning, all streaking from the sky at once and turning me to ashes. I'd touch your lips just long enough to find direction for my blood to flow and when it all turned south I touch you only long enough to blow.
I've honed my tongue against the sharpened blades of all the worlds I've made, and turned the most erotic flights into those harsh realities, all I want is to turn you on, that alone would satisfy, then find that pool between your thighs, and take a dip and burst inside.
I want the taste of you to linger on my lips for days, long after the morning I awake to tangled sheets. Long after the smell of you has gone out of this room, long after you've flown west from here, guided by the stars, toward home. I wish I were less honest, or capable of promises that would entice you back into my bed, but I can only say I want you here instead of in my head.
I know my mind in ways a man should never know himself, but all that vaunted knowledge doesn't help to drive this longing out.
I want you collared, leashed, tied to my bedposts by your throat, unable to move but to protest the hungry way my teeth sink into your flesh, the insatiable wandering of tongue and hands, raking your skin and leaving the bruises and the red, ragged and jagged scratches behind like marking conquered territory. I want your back arches, legs trembling, the tone of every muscle defined by the way it strains against me, as if your own body is quarreling with how it wants more despite the agony. I'm feeling more sadist than sated and though I'd loathe to cause you pain I want to feed on every aching moan and take my nourishment from the sound a strap of wood makes when it welts your back, your legs, your ass, your breasts.
Until you beg me to stop or give into my lust. Until you want me more than I want you now.
If words won't bring you into my arms, I'll seize you. I'll storm those graceful walls and topple your defenses. I've never cared much for the seige, I prefer pitched battle on an open field, but you've conquered me from that palace I built you in my mind and though it seems deranged I find myself unable, unwilling to yield.
I'm wrapped around your finger, but before the end you'll wrap around me.
Lovingly, Lecherously Yours,
-S.R.
How many adjectives can I rhyme? Throw in adverbs to add words to keep track of lost time. If I've spilled a million words in working spurts to earn my way, that's fine, because every spot of ink is worth the world to get inside.
I want you, is what I'm saying.
I'm all desires, the older I get the more I realize it. The only things that speak to me are needs and cravings, and while I'm all for the taking, I'd rather be given. You drive me mad with things I've never understood, and set me ablaze just by knowing that you could. You could reach through my pores and hook your fingers in my veins, shred my failing organs and claw your way into my brain, in turn I'd write you symphonies and shriek the verses all delirium. I'd kiss you but the kiss would be a thousand bolts of lightning, all streaking from the sky at once and turning me to ashes. I'd touch your lips just long enough to find direction for my blood to flow and when it all turned south I touch you only long enough to blow.
I've honed my tongue against the sharpened blades of all the worlds I've made, and turned the most erotic flights into those harsh realities, all I want is to turn you on, that alone would satisfy, then find that pool between your thighs, and take a dip and burst inside.
I want the taste of you to linger on my lips for days, long after the morning I awake to tangled sheets. Long after the smell of you has gone out of this room, long after you've flown west from here, guided by the stars, toward home. I wish I were less honest, or capable of promises that would entice you back into my bed, but I can only say I want you here instead of in my head.
I know my mind in ways a man should never know himself, but all that vaunted knowledge doesn't help to drive this longing out.
I want you collared, leashed, tied to my bedposts by your throat, unable to move but to protest the hungry way my teeth sink into your flesh, the insatiable wandering of tongue and hands, raking your skin and leaving the bruises and the red, ragged and jagged scratches behind like marking conquered territory. I want your back arches, legs trembling, the tone of every muscle defined by the way it strains against me, as if your own body is quarreling with how it wants more despite the agony. I'm feeling more sadist than sated and though I'd loathe to cause you pain I want to feed on every aching moan and take my nourishment from the sound a strap of wood makes when it welts your back, your legs, your ass, your breasts.
Until you beg me to stop or give into my lust. Until you want me more than I want you now.
If words won't bring you into my arms, I'll seize you. I'll storm those graceful walls and topple your defenses. I've never cared much for the seige, I prefer pitched battle on an open field, but you've conquered me from that palace I built you in my mind and though it seems deranged I find myself unable, unwilling to yield.
I'm wrapped around your finger, but before the end you'll wrap around me.
Lovingly, Lecherously Yours,
-S.R.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Imagination
I like to imagine I'm the man of your dreams. All wit and charm, quick with a joke that lights up your face and brings laughter bubbling out of your throat. Just as quick to urge my name from your lips with a look, a sharp gleam in the eyes that sends shockwaves through you from where my fingrnails touch your skin until every nerve is either a raging torrent or a searing inferno, until your need to feel more of me is all you can fathom.
I like to imagine you find me adorable, despite sometimes deplorable thoughts. Vulgar jokes and crude remarks aside. We all wanted to be coveted, regardless of our faults and flaws, in light of our virtues. Perhaps my constant references to Whitman will entice you, or the way I re-tell Shakespeare when I'm entertaining a crowd. Maybe the sly, subtle, occasionally obtuse references to absurd pop-culture or Dungeons and Dragons will be more appealing. Maybe its the half-bastard accent I take on when I've had enough to drink, swirling between just-Irish-enough-to-be-punched-in-the-face-by-an-Irishman and something I've made up on the fly.
I like to imagine you want me. Desperately, at times, the way I surely want you. For all my willingness to be obeissant, I have never liked to be more attached to you than you will ever be to me. I imagine its my words, my one real gods-given gift, that most attract you. For anyone that couldn't find some interest in them will undoubtedly find the rest of me drab, boring, and needlessly conceited.
I like to imagine taking you and being taken, the sex fraught with conflict, roiling and heady like great waves pummeling a cliffside, battering at the land as if it could reclaim what man has taken from the sea. I will be hard, commanding, and you'll leave me with cuts and bruises, tender wounds to remember you by while I'm away. You'll scratch and bites and tear my flesh. I'll make you feel like the first, the last, the only. The Alpha and Omega of making me cum.
And you are, in that breathless span of seconds, hours, days. That aching convulsion of limbs so remniscient of the whirling chaos that was the universe before the gods set it in order.
Too soon you'll wake from your dreams, and I'll become irrelevant.
But you'll return here, and we'll dance together. Slowly, spinning in circles on the sidewalk while cars pass and the streetlight overhead hums its constant tune. You'll flit away, on the trail of fleeting night, and I'll give chase. I've lived this hunt a thousand times, more. I've lived it in the secret places I keep hidden from outside. In the forest surrounding the cabin where I keep all my heart's collections, all my collected hearts. In the moonlit glade, near the fountain where the hunt always ends. On the cracked and broken road that leads off the edge of this world, through the utter darkness beyond, into the starry canopy still further, and then to another edge where nothing passes.
I've lived this hunt, lived for it, and never lived at all.
I have never chased you, never found you and caught you, never fallen for your laughter or fallen, laughing, into your arms. There is no green pasture, no seaside cliff where the smell of salt and life hangs heavy in the air. There is no willow staring off into a forest, contemplating like Macbeth watching Dunsinane. Or Aragorn peeering into Fangorn Forest.
I am, after all, only imagining.
I am, after all, only the man in your dreams.
Sleepily Yours,
-S.R.
I like to imagine you find me adorable, despite sometimes deplorable thoughts. Vulgar jokes and crude remarks aside. We all wanted to be coveted, regardless of our faults and flaws, in light of our virtues. Perhaps my constant references to Whitman will entice you, or the way I re-tell Shakespeare when I'm entertaining a crowd. Maybe the sly, subtle, occasionally obtuse references to absurd pop-culture or Dungeons and Dragons will be more appealing. Maybe its the half-bastard accent I take on when I've had enough to drink, swirling between just-Irish-enough-to-be-punched-in-the-face-by-an-Irishman and something I've made up on the fly.
I like to imagine you want me. Desperately, at times, the way I surely want you. For all my willingness to be obeissant, I have never liked to be more attached to you than you will ever be to me. I imagine its my words, my one real gods-given gift, that most attract you. For anyone that couldn't find some interest in them will undoubtedly find the rest of me drab, boring, and needlessly conceited.
I like to imagine taking you and being taken, the sex fraught with conflict, roiling and heady like great waves pummeling a cliffside, battering at the land as if it could reclaim what man has taken from the sea. I will be hard, commanding, and you'll leave me with cuts and bruises, tender wounds to remember you by while I'm away. You'll scratch and bites and tear my flesh. I'll make you feel like the first, the last, the only. The Alpha and Omega of making me cum.
And you are, in that breathless span of seconds, hours, days. That aching convulsion of limbs so remniscient of the whirling chaos that was the universe before the gods set it in order.
Too soon you'll wake from your dreams, and I'll become irrelevant.
But you'll return here, and we'll dance together. Slowly, spinning in circles on the sidewalk while cars pass and the streetlight overhead hums its constant tune. You'll flit away, on the trail of fleeting night, and I'll give chase. I've lived this hunt a thousand times, more. I've lived it in the secret places I keep hidden from outside. In the forest surrounding the cabin where I keep all my heart's collections, all my collected hearts. In the moonlit glade, near the fountain where the hunt always ends. On the cracked and broken road that leads off the edge of this world, through the utter darkness beyond, into the starry canopy still further, and then to another edge where nothing passes.
I've lived this hunt, lived for it, and never lived at all.
I have never chased you, never found you and caught you, never fallen for your laughter or fallen, laughing, into your arms. There is no green pasture, no seaside cliff where the smell of salt and life hangs heavy in the air. There is no willow staring off into a forest, contemplating like Macbeth watching Dunsinane. Or Aragorn peeering into Fangorn Forest.
I am, after all, only imagining.
I am, after all, only the man in your dreams.
Sleepily Yours,
-S.R.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Reconstruction
She holds the broken bits of me. The shards and shades of things I was, the half-mad, scribbled aspirations, the shreds of plans laid firm on paper. Nothing concrete. She cradles the pieces in strong, capable hands, holding them close as she might a child. Cradles all the jagged bits that would cut the flesh, spill the blood, soak up the life of another for sustenance. She holds me, all in tatters, raving at the wind, and succors me. She sings me songs of lightning or of love or sweat or, better yet, she sings to herself and I am suddenly, utterly, enthralled.
I find myself listening while she sings, humming a tune as my vocal cords are woven back in place. Softly, now, lest I interrupt.
My fists unclench, the fingers flex. Small wonder those recover so quickly. I can build or destroy in equal measure with those hands, and now the temptation arises anew. I may reach up and stroke her cheek, follow the jawline to her lips, kiss her with my fingertips, or wrap my hands around her throat and end the healing now.
My lips are dry, but my tongue soon follows and I find my appetites whetted. What those are is hard to say.
I feel her move, sure-footed, and wonder how she holds me still. Perhaps she hardly notices the barbs that lance her palms, the weight that rests upon her arms. Perhaps I am still weightless. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. I have ever been one to question. Rather, posing answers to which there was never a question.
She sings and I have made my choice, my instincts all be damned. I will keep my thirsts in check, and strain to feel her hands. My nerves, exposed, send sharp sensation careening into space. There is not enough left of me to tell pleasure from pain. My heart begins its throbbing beat, my blood begins to flow, and still she sings that song. I think I may recall how I became this shattered mess of glass and bone.
I stood to turn the world aside, no. A storm arose and swept toward me. No. I stood, and that's all that stands out. I stood alone, a fool, and went bare-chest into the rain, with only words to guard my back, to help me keep my feet. But somewhere in that driving wind, somewhere in that tempest, I forgot the words and I was borne away in pieces. I drowned and burned and bled and screamed. I died, over and over. I reached out, grasped for strength and gasped and the darkness was all I knew.
I recognize the song she sings. I recognize the words. All the strength I've ever known came from those. She must have found me, lying there, wrapped in my own entrails, and gathered me up from the ground, and carried me away.
My lungs are full of fluid, my eyes are full of blood.
She's given me my only gift, squandered and forgotten. Spent in more futile pursuits, and left to spoil in the sun. I am, at once, content and full.
I am a creature of facets, cracked and fractured. I feel paradoxical, weaving between fragile porcelain and adamantium. I am weak and indestructible, meek and invincible. I revel in revelry, in the gift, the gods-given gift of words that pour from my tongue like sweet, smoky bourbon. I am intoxicating, invigorating. I am quixotic to the point of neurotic and though, necrotic, my limbs have all rotted away I find a tonic in her voice. If I'm catatonic it's by choice. I've spent too many dreams already, too many ill-gotten words on bodies that discarded me or were discarded when I woke from the passion and found them limp and ashen.
I'm cocaine, charm and brazen, brashly boasting how I'm potent enough to interrupt the flow of libido and turn the weak upon themselves for my own amusement. I'm fishooks in her flesh even when I seek to be less. Though I want to build her up, to write her dreams into reality, to play god and see all the good I can do, I know a part of me will always want to sink in, addiction, and never let her loose.
And suddenly, I've become self-aware. I can smell the fragrance of the flowers in her hair, I can see the way her lips move in time with her song and I can't help but wonder how she's held me for this long. I can't help but staring, I can't help but reach out and touch her with my own skin. She arcs into me like lightning, scatters my thoughts and turns me inside out. She dips her head, raises me to her lips and kisses me. I taste for the first time, I feel for the first time, I breathe for the first time.
Kissing her is like being created.
I find my feet, firmly, standing on my own. And for the first time in eons I feel entirely at home.
Yours,
-S.R.
I find myself listening while she sings, humming a tune as my vocal cords are woven back in place. Softly, now, lest I interrupt.
My fists unclench, the fingers flex. Small wonder those recover so quickly. I can build or destroy in equal measure with those hands, and now the temptation arises anew. I may reach up and stroke her cheek, follow the jawline to her lips, kiss her with my fingertips, or wrap my hands around her throat and end the healing now.
My lips are dry, but my tongue soon follows and I find my appetites whetted. What those are is hard to say.
I feel her move, sure-footed, and wonder how she holds me still. Perhaps she hardly notices the barbs that lance her palms, the weight that rests upon her arms. Perhaps I am still weightless. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. I have ever been one to question. Rather, posing answers to which there was never a question.
She sings and I have made my choice, my instincts all be damned. I will keep my thirsts in check, and strain to feel her hands. My nerves, exposed, send sharp sensation careening into space. There is not enough left of me to tell pleasure from pain. My heart begins its throbbing beat, my blood begins to flow, and still she sings that song. I think I may recall how I became this shattered mess of glass and bone.
I stood to turn the world aside, no. A storm arose and swept toward me. No. I stood, and that's all that stands out. I stood alone, a fool, and went bare-chest into the rain, with only words to guard my back, to help me keep my feet. But somewhere in that driving wind, somewhere in that tempest, I forgot the words and I was borne away in pieces. I drowned and burned and bled and screamed. I died, over and over. I reached out, grasped for strength and gasped and the darkness was all I knew.
I recognize the song she sings. I recognize the words. All the strength I've ever known came from those. She must have found me, lying there, wrapped in my own entrails, and gathered me up from the ground, and carried me away.
My lungs are full of fluid, my eyes are full of blood.
She's given me my only gift, squandered and forgotten. Spent in more futile pursuits, and left to spoil in the sun. I am, at once, content and full.
I am a creature of facets, cracked and fractured. I feel paradoxical, weaving between fragile porcelain and adamantium. I am weak and indestructible, meek and invincible. I revel in revelry, in the gift, the gods-given gift of words that pour from my tongue like sweet, smoky bourbon. I am intoxicating, invigorating. I am quixotic to the point of neurotic and though, necrotic, my limbs have all rotted away I find a tonic in her voice. If I'm catatonic it's by choice. I've spent too many dreams already, too many ill-gotten words on bodies that discarded me or were discarded when I woke from the passion and found them limp and ashen.
I'm cocaine, charm and brazen, brashly boasting how I'm potent enough to interrupt the flow of libido and turn the weak upon themselves for my own amusement. I'm fishooks in her flesh even when I seek to be less. Though I want to build her up, to write her dreams into reality, to play god and see all the good I can do, I know a part of me will always want to sink in, addiction, and never let her loose.
And suddenly, I've become self-aware. I can smell the fragrance of the flowers in her hair, I can see the way her lips move in time with her song and I can't help but wonder how she's held me for this long. I can't help but staring, I can't help but reach out and touch her with my own skin. She arcs into me like lightning, scatters my thoughts and turns me inside out. She dips her head, raises me to her lips and kisses me. I taste for the first time, I feel for the first time, I breathe for the first time.
Kissing her is like being created.
I find my feet, firmly, standing on my own. And for the first time in eons I feel entirely at home.
Yours,
-S.R.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
When I Am Dead
Sometimes, I feel as if the world has moved on. Not beyond itself, beyond the constant turmoil of nature, but beyond me. The world has moved on and left me to the slow decay of those too weak or apathetic to keep pace. I feel worn, thin, very nearly translucent. The weight of my own bones is almost too much to carry, much less the burdens that drift along behind me, leashed to my waist, pulled through the choking dust of this deserted place. There are corpses alongside the road I walk, dead men in various states of decay. Their bodies tell a story, and each one ends with death most painful. None have starved, none have died of disease. Their bodies, perhaps, were finally brought to heel by these things, but the souls, the essence of these people, died in ways much, much more horrible. Each is stretched, worn, the muscles and ligaments detached where they have not rotted away entirely. Pieces of them lay scattered behind, the souls trudged on forward even as the bodies degenerated. The same way I keep moving across the blasted vista, toward distant mountains as unattainable as the sky above. They all fell, eventually, fell down and never rose, though they continued to claw their way forward. A few feet, a half mile, never any more. Even as I watch them, cautious as I am of the untrustworthy dead, I feel that weakness creep into me. The strength wanes, my steps become staggering, lurching motions, each more trying, more taxing, less rewarding than the last. I am dying, surely, and to you who find me sprawled out on the side of this cracked and broken road, I leave this behind. So that I will not be left this way, forever carrion for the scavengers. Left to wander, unable to understand that what bound me to the world is long since gone.
When I am dead, lay my body in the earth. For three days, let it lie close to the surface, and pray for rain. Sew for me garments of the finest silks, tailored to my limbs, that I will be presentable when I stand before the gods. On the third day, rouse me from the grave at dawn and wash the loose earth from my skin. Dress me, and build for me a pyre.
Let all my clan, my kith and kin, gather together. Let them drink and eat and revel. Let the music of this world lift their spirits, that they do not mourn for me. I will already be far beyond mourning. I will wait and watch and take heart from their joy. Let them pay their last respects and lift me on their hands onto my pyre. Lay my weapons beside me, for the road to On High may hold many dangers, tests to prove my worthiness. I will wait and watch, gathering my strength for the journey.
When I am dead and laid on my pyre, when the days of drink and food and music have passed, and my wepons lay beside me, let the men of my clan build a great fire. Let them feast once more, a beast freshly slain, and let the women take a torch from their flame and set it to my body. Let them shed no tears, but let them tell stories of my past deeds. Let them recall my triumphs. I will wait and watch, recalling the glorious of my life alongside them.
Let them tend the fire until dawn, swapping stories upon stories until, as all things passed from mouth to ear to mouth, they have become legends. When the fire has died, when the last of the smoke drifts up, let them gather my ashes and take them to the sea. I will wait and watch, content in what I have done.
Let them build for me a great burial mound and lay my ashes within. I will be buried near the sea, as my ancestors, that I will always have the clean, salt-tinged air at my back. Let them build themselves another fire, and rejoice that the deed is done. The children of my clan will race among the surf, the women tend the fires, and the men carve a stone for me with all my triumphs. A stone to stand the test of time, as my name will stand, as my memory will stand. I will wait no longer, watch no longer, for now I will walk a different road.
The burial done, let them move on, as I have moved on, as the world has moved on. Let them think, from time to time, of me. Let them visit where I last lay upon this world, and let them smile. I will watch from On High, at the side of the gods, at the great banquets in their greatest Halls. I will watch and wait for them to join me. I will feast and drink and revel with those who came before.
Do this for me, when I am dead, and I will hope to see the same done for you. Too many forgotten corpses lie alongside this road. Too few line those golden halls.
When the end comes, remember that.
Yours,
-S.R.
When I am dead, lay my body in the earth. For three days, let it lie close to the surface, and pray for rain. Sew for me garments of the finest silks, tailored to my limbs, that I will be presentable when I stand before the gods. On the third day, rouse me from the grave at dawn and wash the loose earth from my skin. Dress me, and build for me a pyre.
Let all my clan, my kith and kin, gather together. Let them drink and eat and revel. Let the music of this world lift their spirits, that they do not mourn for me. I will already be far beyond mourning. I will wait and watch and take heart from their joy. Let them pay their last respects and lift me on their hands onto my pyre. Lay my weapons beside me, for the road to On High may hold many dangers, tests to prove my worthiness. I will wait and watch, gathering my strength for the journey.
When I am dead and laid on my pyre, when the days of drink and food and music have passed, and my wepons lay beside me, let the men of my clan build a great fire. Let them feast once more, a beast freshly slain, and let the women take a torch from their flame and set it to my body. Let them shed no tears, but let them tell stories of my past deeds. Let them recall my triumphs. I will wait and watch, recalling the glorious of my life alongside them.
Let them tend the fire until dawn, swapping stories upon stories until, as all things passed from mouth to ear to mouth, they have become legends. When the fire has died, when the last of the smoke drifts up, let them gather my ashes and take them to the sea. I will wait and watch, content in what I have done.
Let them build for me a great burial mound and lay my ashes within. I will be buried near the sea, as my ancestors, that I will always have the clean, salt-tinged air at my back. Let them build themselves another fire, and rejoice that the deed is done. The children of my clan will race among the surf, the women tend the fires, and the men carve a stone for me with all my triumphs. A stone to stand the test of time, as my name will stand, as my memory will stand. I will wait no longer, watch no longer, for now I will walk a different road.
The burial done, let them move on, as I have moved on, as the world has moved on. Let them think, from time to time, of me. Let them visit where I last lay upon this world, and let them smile. I will watch from On High, at the side of the gods, at the great banquets in their greatest Halls. I will watch and wait for them to join me. I will feast and drink and revel with those who came before.
Do this for me, when I am dead, and I will hope to see the same done for you. Too many forgotten corpses lie alongside this road. Too few line those golden halls.
When the end comes, remember that.
Yours,
-S.R.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Exploration: A Poem
EXPLORATION
There's a place here,
Where a weeping willow overlooks
A bright, green pasture,
That I think you would love.
Not because of the contrast--
The inherent melancholy of the tree
Backed by a carpet of green
That's sure to bring a smile to your lips
And light,
Teeming,
To your eyes--
But you'd love it because you're an adventurer.
The limbs of the tree beckon you
To climb,
To scale its ancient body
And see what lies at the top,
And a tire swing hangs from one branch,
Tied to an aged rope,
Left behind by some long gone neighbor
Or some anonymous,
Mirthful god.
Beyond the pasture,
A thick copse of trees
Promises hidden treasure.
Perhaps elves live beneath
The shadowed boughs, flitting between
Trunks at twilight alongside fireflies,
Vanishing from sight,
Reappearing.
Or danger lurks,
Sinister,
Cowled in black,
In the dark corners.
And still it sings,
As all the unknown world must sing
To you,
To explore,
To conquer.
There's a place here,
Where a weeping willow overlooks
A bright, green pasture,
That I think you would love.
Not because of the contrast--
The inherent melancholy of the tree
Backed by a carpet of green
That's sure to bring a smile to your lips
And light,
Teeming,
To your eyes--
But you'd love it because you're an adventurer.
The limbs of the tree beckon you
To climb,
To scale its ancient body
And see what lies at the top,
And a tire swing hangs from one branch,
Tied to an aged rope,
Left behind by some long gone neighbor
Or some anonymous,
Mirthful god.
Beyond the pasture,
A thick copse of trees
Promises hidden treasure.
Perhaps elves live beneath
The shadowed boughs, flitting between
Trunks at twilight alongside fireflies,
Vanishing from sight,
Reappearing.
Or danger lurks,
Sinister,
Cowled in black,
In the dark corners.
And still it sings,
As all the unknown world must sing
To you,
To explore,
To conquer.
Poems About Boning
CLIMAX, RESOLUTION
She arches,
Back, toes, neck
Sinews stretching toward the sky
With fingers buried
In sweat-slick flesh.
Her nerves are lit
With fire,
Like snake venom crashing
In heady waves
Through her veins.
He shudders,
Tremors ripple down the length of him,
Something between the onset
Of hypothermia
And the aftershock
Of an earthquake.
Then silence,
An oppressive, wordless calm
Falls between them
And by the time she opens her eyes
He is gone.
LOVE, BITTER SWEET
Hers are eyes like spellbound lovers
Lost in silk-spun dreams
Of high adventure, amorous nights,
Sweat-soaked in spent ecstasy
She dances barefoot in the rain
A halo of lightning crowns her head
Hips sway along the breeze
Her dress clings to her thighs,
Unwilling to part.
Beneath the falling leaves, I loved her
Took her in the autumn moon
With hot tongue pressed to wetted flesh
She expels a breath
Where at once my lust was slain
A great, unyielding spasm came.
She left me all the same.
TREPIDATION
I’d swallow your venom
Until an abscess formed and my jaw
Rotted away,
The bone vanishing under the spreading
Infection like
Hiroshima after the blast.
I’d eat the festering pustules
Of your wrath,
Choke them down so that my body could
Break them and absorb them,
And take the disease into my own blood.
I’d weather the storm of your
Discontent,
While it tore at my sails and stripped the
Flesh from my bones,
Poured salt-tinged water on exposed muscle,
And dismembered me a limb at a time.
I would take every beating,
Every stinging word
Flung at me in a rage,
Like knives hurled in a circus.
Until I’ve been reduced to something
Unrecognizable and heinous.
There is only so much of me to destroy,
And I fear that loving you will
Leave me in tatters, ruined for everyone that comes later.
She arches,
Back, toes, neck
Sinews stretching toward the sky
With fingers buried
In sweat-slick flesh.
Her nerves are lit
With fire,
Like snake venom crashing
In heady waves
Through her veins.
He shudders,
Tremors ripple down the length of him,
Something between the onset
Of hypothermia
And the aftershock
Of an earthquake.
Then silence,
An oppressive, wordless calm
Falls between them
And by the time she opens her eyes
He is gone.
LOVE, BITTER SWEET
Hers are eyes like spellbound lovers
Lost in silk-spun dreams
Of high adventure, amorous nights,
Sweat-soaked in spent ecstasy
She dances barefoot in the rain
A halo of lightning crowns her head
Hips sway along the breeze
Her dress clings to her thighs,
Unwilling to part.
Beneath the falling leaves, I loved her
Took her in the autumn moon
With hot tongue pressed to wetted flesh
She expels a breath
Where at once my lust was slain
A great, unyielding spasm came.
She left me all the same.
TREPIDATION
I’d swallow your venom
Until an abscess formed and my jaw
Rotted away,
The bone vanishing under the spreading
Infection like
Hiroshima after the blast.
I’d eat the festering pustules
Of your wrath,
Choke them down so that my body could
Break them and absorb them,
And take the disease into my own blood.
I’d weather the storm of your
Discontent,
While it tore at my sails and stripped the
Flesh from my bones,
Poured salt-tinged water on exposed muscle,
And dismembered me a limb at a time.
I would take every beating,
Every stinging word
Flung at me in a rage,
Like knives hurled in a circus.
Until I’ve been reduced to something
Unrecognizable and heinous.
There is only so much of me to destroy,
And I fear that loving you will
Leave me in tatters, ruined for everyone that comes later.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Madness, Or, A Man Falling
Burn away the aching muscles, the straining nerves, the sweat and the slick and the stained sheets tangled around tangled limbs. Brush off the lingering quivering of nervous systems in slow-motion, too enraptured with this lascivious act to realize the dance is done, the scene has ended, the curtain and the libido that held it open have reached their pinnacle and toppled. Boil it all down, smaller even than the parts. Delve, perhaps, beyond the sadistic crush of teeth and stabbing fingers. Deeper than the need to feel pain mingled with pleasure, heightening sense like methamphetamines to the point of mania. Deeper than dialated pupils, stretching the limits of ocular lenses to take each other in, soak in the sight as if the mere act of looking could confine every contour of our bodies to memory. Boil it all down and I'm a lecher to your psychotic.
I will feed off you, the way you mold words around your tongue and form them with your lips. I will feed on it as if I am digesting those creations of my own volition, and lust for it as if those words were the iron length that twitches between my thighs at each slurred, sultry syllable. I will eat your words and wish you'd eat me.
Perhaps, then, this is symbiotic. This exotic, no, erotic, no, neurotic display. Is it platonic or a tonic for the chronically chained. I'm all prolific, narcissistic, full of septic disdain, but it's endemic. I can't end it.
You call flaws what I call flawless.
I will sing you songs of sailormen lost, of storms that whip and winter frost, of whirlwind passion, raging hot, siroccos, pain so cruelly wrought, and love so deep that time forgot. I'll sing a web until you're caught. I've hungered now for stranger times to seek my throne between your thighs and plant my grin in bourbon eyes. To supple breast with wicked lips, a groan drawn forth with flicking wrist, to speak of worshipping your hips, in low, discordant hymns.
For all my fear of spiders I would snare you like the firefly and wrap my bloated body in your labrynthine insides.
Insidious as thought may be, it pales to meet reality, for if you are to feed on me, the consequence is dire. For soon the heart that ceased to beat will drum itself, though rhymically, it pounds an army's marching feet, all but slavering desire. Then woe to find this heart of mine is snared itself by some new twine that holds it tight and seeks to bind that which has yet to survive.
You'll find me writing poetry, less of need and more of beauty, and all your kisses running through me. Love, it seems, the light suffusing.
There I'll stand before you, naked. Cowled in rain and cloaked in hatred, staring daggers at the sky, until you beckon me inside.
Quick wit will slow and charm will fade, and lust, though hot, will cool. Then all that's left is me in love with you. The armor I have worn is bent, battered, broken, shattered, rent, and finally just cast aside, for all the good it's done. I will rage and fight and spurn the night, but in the end the battle's won, not by show of strength but by the sight of you bathed in starlight.
Take this huddled, broken man. He's all that's left of me. Where I would yearn to rule the world, he wants to sail the sea. He wants to watch the sun descend, to claim himself a plot of land, and build his life with his own hands where I would turn and flee. Perhaps he's stronger, come to think, than lechery and smoke and drink, the things I cherish now are things, what he will seek or his life brings, I can hardly see.
When you reach the clearing at the end of the path, I hope you'll both sing of me.
Yours,
-S.R.
I will feed off you, the way you mold words around your tongue and form them with your lips. I will feed on it as if I am digesting those creations of my own volition, and lust for it as if those words were the iron length that twitches between my thighs at each slurred, sultry syllable. I will eat your words and wish you'd eat me.
Perhaps, then, this is symbiotic. This exotic, no, erotic, no, neurotic display. Is it platonic or a tonic for the chronically chained. I'm all prolific, narcissistic, full of septic disdain, but it's endemic. I can't end it.
You call flaws what I call flawless.
I will sing you songs of sailormen lost, of storms that whip and winter frost, of whirlwind passion, raging hot, siroccos, pain so cruelly wrought, and love so deep that time forgot. I'll sing a web until you're caught. I've hungered now for stranger times to seek my throne between your thighs and plant my grin in bourbon eyes. To supple breast with wicked lips, a groan drawn forth with flicking wrist, to speak of worshipping your hips, in low, discordant hymns.
For all my fear of spiders I would snare you like the firefly and wrap my bloated body in your labrynthine insides.
Insidious as thought may be, it pales to meet reality, for if you are to feed on me, the consequence is dire. For soon the heart that ceased to beat will drum itself, though rhymically, it pounds an army's marching feet, all but slavering desire. Then woe to find this heart of mine is snared itself by some new twine that holds it tight and seeks to bind that which has yet to survive.
You'll find me writing poetry, less of need and more of beauty, and all your kisses running through me. Love, it seems, the light suffusing.
There I'll stand before you, naked. Cowled in rain and cloaked in hatred, staring daggers at the sky, until you beckon me inside.
Quick wit will slow and charm will fade, and lust, though hot, will cool. Then all that's left is me in love with you. The armor I have worn is bent, battered, broken, shattered, rent, and finally just cast aside, for all the good it's done. I will rage and fight and spurn the night, but in the end the battle's won, not by show of strength but by the sight of you bathed in starlight.
Take this huddled, broken man. He's all that's left of me. Where I would yearn to rule the world, he wants to sail the sea. He wants to watch the sun descend, to claim himself a plot of land, and build his life with his own hands where I would turn and flee. Perhaps he's stronger, come to think, than lechery and smoke and drink, the things I cherish now are things, what he will seek or his life brings, I can hardly see.
When you reach the clearing at the end of the path, I hope you'll both sing of me.
Yours,
-S.R.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
A Handful of Poetry
APOTHEOSIS
The forge suffuses me,
Imbues me with strength.
The heat radiates outward,
Drawing on the
Center,
While little cataclysms,
Chain reactions,
Are born, erupt, and are reborn.
She whispered to me,
From years and miles ago.
Graced with a magnetic presence,
That I dare not ignore for fear
Of being pulled apart.
She is power,
Raw and uncontained,
Enshrined and beautiful,
And she does not dance.
Rain beats down on her head,
Her dark locks
Cascade,
Like angry mountain streams,
Into the bosom of a valley.
She shrieks, bared chest to the wind
Challenging the storm,
And emerging the victor.
Zeus bows his head in deference.
Satisfied, she turns
And rekindles the forge.
The Forge
Her legs are
Like molten gold,
White hot, poured over marble,
Sculpted so perfectly,
It is painful to the eyes, to the touch,
Incendiary to the nerves.
Her fingers skitter up his back, sinking into the skin
As if seeking the bone buried beneath,
Like divers searching
For Atlantis.
He prowls, predatory,
Pupils dilated, mouth slightly open,
Jaw muscles poised to snap shut,
To tear away flesh or
To leave marks of his need
In the soft, white of her throat.
The first tracks through pristine snow.
They writhe and roll,
All hips and limbs,
Sweat and succor.
A chaotic mass of flesh and sinew,
Flashes of movement:
An arched back, muscle tensing along the larynx
As she cries out, arms seizing her, releasing,
Capturing.
They crash together, no rhythm,
No senses, no awareness
But for the tides that push and pull
At them, the innumerable
Pleasures,
The urgent, heedless desire.
She tenses beneath him, relaxes,
Calls him names he has
Ached to hear, screamed or whispered,
And her eyes flutter open
At the height of it all,
Drink him in, and burn him,
Everything but his need for her,
To dust.
THE DANCER
I have often dreamed of you,
Dancing on the surface
Of the water,
Like the picture of
Luna,
Garbed in white gossamer strands.
With eyes that burn
Like incandescent stars,
And alabaster skin
Bathed in moonlight.
I watched from the shore,
As you pirouetted
Atop the waves
Toes rising above the roiling
Crests, as if they rose and fell for you,
Bowing at your whim,
And I found myself lost
In the song
That spilled from the air,
The tune you hummed,
While you dipped and leaped,
So utterly adrift
In your own music,
As to never know I was there.
I return, night after night,
Sneaking away from
The world,
From these fitful worries
That plague my waking hours,
To stand and watch you,
And wonder if that kind of bliss,
Is forever beyond my reach.
I have stood in silence, and in song,
For more years than I have lived,
And kept this place secret,
Sacred,
A gift you have shared with me,
And no other.
That, alone, is worth all the worry.
PLAYING GOD
I want to create you with words,
To build you from
The meaningless symbols set to white canvas,
To mold your senses with letters
And fire your synapses with soundless writing.
I want to make you,
The way mankind was molded from clay,
Taken from the very earth on which
He dwells,
So that you might exist elsewhere,
In all the worlds of imagining,
Immortal as the written word,
As the language,
Because you are no more
Than a conjuration,
An idea placed in flesh and blood,
Not by the hands of some Allfather,
Nor the endless, catastrophic
Upheaval of biology.
I have created you,
Or an ideal you,
From the skin
And hair and bone
That walks in and out of my mind
And transposed something else,
Something wonderful to me.
In time, I'm sure,
The illusion will shatter,
These thoughts, these
Sinister fantasies,
Will erode like so many stones
In the wind,
And I will see you
For who you are,
More than words placed neatly on a page,
More than I am capable of creating.
The forge suffuses me,
Imbues me with strength.
The heat radiates outward,
Drawing on the
Center,
While little cataclysms,
Chain reactions,
Are born, erupt, and are reborn.
She whispered to me,
From years and miles ago.
Graced with a magnetic presence,
That I dare not ignore for fear
Of being pulled apart.
She is power,
Raw and uncontained,
Enshrined and beautiful,
And she does not dance.
Rain beats down on her head,
Her dark locks
Cascade,
Like angry mountain streams,
Into the bosom of a valley.
She shrieks, bared chest to the wind
Challenging the storm,
And emerging the victor.
Zeus bows his head in deference.
Satisfied, she turns
And rekindles the forge.
The Forge
Her legs are
Like molten gold,
White hot, poured over marble,
Sculpted so perfectly,
It is painful to the eyes, to the touch,
Incendiary to the nerves.
Her fingers skitter up his back, sinking into the skin
As if seeking the bone buried beneath,
Like divers searching
For Atlantis.
He prowls, predatory,
Pupils dilated, mouth slightly open,
Jaw muscles poised to snap shut,
To tear away flesh or
To leave marks of his need
In the soft, white of her throat.
The first tracks through pristine snow.
They writhe and roll,
All hips and limbs,
Sweat and succor.
A chaotic mass of flesh and sinew,
Flashes of movement:
An arched back, muscle tensing along the larynx
As she cries out, arms seizing her, releasing,
Capturing.
They crash together, no rhythm,
No senses, no awareness
But for the tides that push and pull
At them, the innumerable
Pleasures,
The urgent, heedless desire.
She tenses beneath him, relaxes,
Calls him names he has
Ached to hear, screamed or whispered,
And her eyes flutter open
At the height of it all,
Drink him in, and burn him,
Everything but his need for her,
To dust.
THE DANCER
I have often dreamed of you,
Dancing on the surface
Of the water,
Like the picture of
Luna,
Garbed in white gossamer strands.
With eyes that burn
Like incandescent stars,
And alabaster skin
Bathed in moonlight.
I watched from the shore,
As you pirouetted
Atop the waves
Toes rising above the roiling
Crests, as if they rose and fell for you,
Bowing at your whim,
And I found myself lost
In the song
That spilled from the air,
The tune you hummed,
While you dipped and leaped,
So utterly adrift
In your own music,
As to never know I was there.
I return, night after night,
Sneaking away from
The world,
From these fitful worries
That plague my waking hours,
To stand and watch you,
And wonder if that kind of bliss,
Is forever beyond my reach.
I have stood in silence, and in song,
For more years than I have lived,
And kept this place secret,
Sacred,
A gift you have shared with me,
And no other.
That, alone, is worth all the worry.
PLAYING GOD
I want to create you with words,
To build you from
The meaningless symbols set to white canvas,
To mold your senses with letters
And fire your synapses with soundless writing.
I want to make you,
The way mankind was molded from clay,
Taken from the very earth on which
He dwells,
So that you might exist elsewhere,
In all the worlds of imagining,
Immortal as the written word,
As the language,
Because you are no more
Than a conjuration,
An idea placed in flesh and blood,
Not by the hands of some Allfather,
Nor the endless, catastrophic
Upheaval of biology.
I have created you,
Or an ideal you,
From the skin
And hair and bone
That walks in and out of my mind
And transposed something else,
Something wonderful to me.
In time, I'm sure,
The illusion will shatter,
These thoughts, these
Sinister fantasies,
Will erode like so many stones
In the wind,
And I will see you
For who you are,
More than words placed neatly on a page,
More than I am capable of creating.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Redemption (A Plague on Words Part VI)
Oh, the shame that sent me off from the god that I once loved, was the same that sent me into your arms.
I was born a godless son, borne to a lawless land, and raised to raze the worlds of man and die with sword in hand. The spark grew dark and jumped the shark as I sought lust and more than fought to carry on my line or find some meaning, some Salvation. And whence I saw her, bathing there, with locks of starlight wound in hair not midnight black or flaxen fair she lay a banner made for war or conquest named like Peace. The pieces came together, I the least.
She was thigh-highs and bright eyed at the pulpit, veiled and hooded as a culprit, kneeling in orison. Her voice, sickly mellifluous, commanded me obstreperous, to conquer the horizon. I was all ebullience, she bound my wrists in dominance while I gasped silent consonants and begged her recompense. She was virulent, neurtoci and erotic, swearng covenant to malevolence. For few aroused me, so profoundly and I, astounded, came unfounded and found my flights of fancy grounded.
When I fell for her tricks this evisceratrix fed me to the host of newly-Christianed darchangels. Converts all in concert sought to praise her fable. Then, shattered by the battering of lust unleashed, I scattered them to spatter on the cracked earth at her feet.
She found my bared arms captivating and slinked in close, breath palpitating, and festooned me without debating, a fragrant glimpse of all eclpised. She flaunted me in haunted dreams that, daunted, seemed frayed at the seams, and flitted off until she seemed the presence of Deception.
Deliver unto me thy sacred seed and sow my guts rebellious.
I crept, adept, into the parts of me where the waning Light wept. She followed, stealthly deft to the weakness and swept me in her debt. I left, bereft of this titanic wreck and retched.
She emerged from the bilious insides querulous, stalking deleterious, appetite licentious. Perilous, I knew, to crave so lecherous, so dexterous a lover bound to strike until I fold. I sold my soul for the sole right to her holes and holed up deep where she could hold me whole and hope arose and rolled until she curled her toes and blossomed like a carnal rose, she gripped me in the throes and froze and ceased to seize and spasm in the breath before she blows.
She came imperiously, they came deleriously, all flocking to the banner of her myriad needs. She lined them up for battle, led them dying by threes, she was Venus on a power trip, a penis-flytrap.
Then a thunderhead broke, as if intervention, to loosen muscles bound in primal tension, incited and excited by her anal pretension, and never mention my malefic intention to see that she felt without exception the wracking of my body with pain retention, to spill her blood in pleasure sans all exemption.
I spoke the secret names of gods, and fouled the furthest northern frosts, no refuge from the holocaust that swept across the waste of what was once a feted world, now fetid, burned and blackened churls were all that lived with standards furled and forked tongues curled in anticipation.
No Temptation or Salvation, she was all Redemption.
Her eyes alight like pagan rites and Light defies my woeful crimes, I wiped away time passed like brine clung to a sinking ship, and drew back on the black tide flowing forth, from twixt my lips. I pressed my thumbs into her hips, a gentle thrust toward one last kiss and when she breathed me in I knew the sky would blue again, then would I die but by my right, the last shreds of my soul would fly to hallowed halls of Valhalla to fight and dine until the end.
Ethereally Yours,
-S.R.
I was born a godless son, borne to a lawless land, and raised to raze the worlds of man and die with sword in hand. The spark grew dark and jumped the shark as I sought lust and more than fought to carry on my line or find some meaning, some Salvation. And whence I saw her, bathing there, with locks of starlight wound in hair not midnight black or flaxen fair she lay a banner made for war or conquest named like Peace. The pieces came together, I the least.
She was thigh-highs and bright eyed at the pulpit, veiled and hooded as a culprit, kneeling in orison. Her voice, sickly mellifluous, commanded me obstreperous, to conquer the horizon. I was all ebullience, she bound my wrists in dominance while I gasped silent consonants and begged her recompense. She was virulent, neurtoci and erotic, swearng covenant to malevolence. For few aroused me, so profoundly and I, astounded, came unfounded and found my flights of fancy grounded.
When I fell for her tricks this evisceratrix fed me to the host of newly-Christianed darchangels. Converts all in concert sought to praise her fable. Then, shattered by the battering of lust unleashed, I scattered them to spatter on the cracked earth at her feet.
She found my bared arms captivating and slinked in close, breath palpitating, and festooned me without debating, a fragrant glimpse of all eclpised. She flaunted me in haunted dreams that, daunted, seemed frayed at the seams, and flitted off until she seemed the presence of Deception.
Deliver unto me thy sacred seed and sow my guts rebellious.
I crept, adept, into the parts of me where the waning Light wept. She followed, stealthly deft to the weakness and swept me in her debt. I left, bereft of this titanic wreck and retched.
She emerged from the bilious insides querulous, stalking deleterious, appetite licentious. Perilous, I knew, to crave so lecherous, so dexterous a lover bound to strike until I fold. I sold my soul for the sole right to her holes and holed up deep where she could hold me whole and hope arose and rolled until she curled her toes and blossomed like a carnal rose, she gripped me in the throes and froze and ceased to seize and spasm in the breath before she blows.
She came imperiously, they came deleriously, all flocking to the banner of her myriad needs. She lined them up for battle, led them dying by threes, she was Venus on a power trip, a penis-flytrap.
Then a thunderhead broke, as if intervention, to loosen muscles bound in primal tension, incited and excited by her anal pretension, and never mention my malefic intention to see that she felt without exception the wracking of my body with pain retention, to spill her blood in pleasure sans all exemption.
I spoke the secret names of gods, and fouled the furthest northern frosts, no refuge from the holocaust that swept across the waste of what was once a feted world, now fetid, burned and blackened churls were all that lived with standards furled and forked tongues curled in anticipation.
No Temptation or Salvation, she was all Redemption.
Her eyes alight like pagan rites and Light defies my woeful crimes, I wiped away time passed like brine clung to a sinking ship, and drew back on the black tide flowing forth, from twixt my lips. I pressed my thumbs into her hips, a gentle thrust toward one last kiss and when she breathed me in I knew the sky would blue again, then would I die but by my right, the last shreds of my soul would fly to hallowed halls of Valhalla to fight and dine until the end.
Ethereally Yours,
-S.R.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Sex (A Plague on Words Part V)
Heaving midst Narcissus
On a maledict blanket of stars
She was all three wishes: Sex, sex, sex
I deftly swept the wine from her lips with the tip of my tongue and wound her round waltzes in streetlight. I captured her fluttering eyes and fed them to butterflies hatched in my stomach. Faking distaste and a predators grace, I picked up the pace as the light neared the day and incited a riot with wandering fingers, delighting the lilt of desire. She exacted my patience, expecting obeisance, though she bowed, pusillanimous, beneath my phallus I beat at her door seeking entry. I crossed through the threshold and fell to a knee, too craven to crave and too dire with need. I lapped at the curtain she'd drawn to gather and garner her pleasure to spend at my leisure like flesh currency, expenditures lurching toward treasure. Using measures untold, I breached her hold, boarded the ship, crossing lines at her hips, and sank her at sea with the motion. I professed votive devotion, such forlorn emotion, with nefarious motive. She gave pity and swallowed me whole. At the clench of her throat, I lost all control and unloaded.
Far from satisfied, I closed my eyes and summoned all inside to stretch this flesh anew and rend her hide to hid my bone and sighed. Grabbing at her dress, her silken tresses clutched tight in my fist, I swore the course and stole, a bandit's kiss. Then wrenching, bent, inhaled her scent and pressed until I was entrenched to deep to be repelled or sent away and spent my last thought on her.
I ravaged her savagely, ransacking holes, wherein once there was innocence I've made a home. She was ravishing, lavishing me with her shrieks, her groans like the moan of an ill-fated beast, led to its death on the night of a feast. She thrashes and gnashes with nails and with teeth, then ceases abruptly to whimper a plea and, paying no heed to those whispers of need, I sought her devouring, gagged, on her knees, hacked down from a pedestal, hunted and seized. I siphon more pleasure the more that she screams.
Shall I reiterate? Desiderate? I demand for my own her body to sate me, the hunger has grown, beyond all conception to trap or control, this virulent infection has spread, taken hold.
Savoring and slavering I plunged for the maw and sank my lips and teeth into her jaw. I filled her to the cusp and clutched as if crushed in a cunt that spasmed with orgasm like the split of atoms. Her nails tore ragged holes in flesh that bled and pressed like honored guests invited to the slaughter, and wracked with pain, I slurred profane and left a stain like thousands butchered all in white.
I grasped her, gasped, and asked for more. Sweat-slicked, she licked me quivering, a tease and taste of what's in store.
Then wrapped her painted claws around my neck.
She saddled me, straddling, gripped twixt her thighs, then rose like Leviathan and writhed like the tides that ebb and flow unsure of where to cum or blow away all reason. I'm a sucker for succor, the succubus binds, my hands to the bedposts with intestinal twine, pulled from my guts while she arched, mid-ride, and she clawed at my jaw, scratching, snatched out my eyes to cast o'er her shoulder and feed to the wine that sat watching and lapping at the sweat on her spine, admiring the glistening flesh from behind and praying that sweetest death soon would be mine.
She suckled the pith from the pits of my body and drank from the marrow that spilled down her chest, but though I was beaten I would not be bested, I wrapped round her throat and felled her, uncontested, then dropped out of sight, evanescent. I prowled down the length of her legs, nipping and snapping, more rabid than torrid, and sordidly, doggedly, reached her painted toes to catch and suck, twitching, brought to heel and fuck. Then finally, sputtered and spattered the last, and splattered the fruits of this amorous clasp on her ass and collapsed with first light.
As if it were the first time every night.
Lecherously Yours,
-S.R.
On a maledict blanket of stars
She was all three wishes: Sex, sex, sex
I deftly swept the wine from her lips with the tip of my tongue and wound her round waltzes in streetlight. I captured her fluttering eyes and fed them to butterflies hatched in my stomach. Faking distaste and a predators grace, I picked up the pace as the light neared the day and incited a riot with wandering fingers, delighting the lilt of desire. She exacted my patience, expecting obeisance, though she bowed, pusillanimous, beneath my phallus I beat at her door seeking entry. I crossed through the threshold and fell to a knee, too craven to crave and too dire with need. I lapped at the curtain she'd drawn to gather and garner her pleasure to spend at my leisure like flesh currency, expenditures lurching toward treasure. Using measures untold, I breached her hold, boarded the ship, crossing lines at her hips, and sank her at sea with the motion. I professed votive devotion, such forlorn emotion, with nefarious motive. She gave pity and swallowed me whole. At the clench of her throat, I lost all control and unloaded.
Far from satisfied, I closed my eyes and summoned all inside to stretch this flesh anew and rend her hide to hid my bone and sighed. Grabbing at her dress, her silken tresses clutched tight in my fist, I swore the course and stole, a bandit's kiss. Then wrenching, bent, inhaled her scent and pressed until I was entrenched to deep to be repelled or sent away and spent my last thought on her.
I ravaged her savagely, ransacking holes, wherein once there was innocence I've made a home. She was ravishing, lavishing me with her shrieks, her groans like the moan of an ill-fated beast, led to its death on the night of a feast. She thrashes and gnashes with nails and with teeth, then ceases abruptly to whimper a plea and, paying no heed to those whispers of need, I sought her devouring, gagged, on her knees, hacked down from a pedestal, hunted and seized. I siphon more pleasure the more that she screams.
Shall I reiterate? Desiderate? I demand for my own her body to sate me, the hunger has grown, beyond all conception to trap or control, this virulent infection has spread, taken hold.
Savoring and slavering I plunged for the maw and sank my lips and teeth into her jaw. I filled her to the cusp and clutched as if crushed in a cunt that spasmed with orgasm like the split of atoms. Her nails tore ragged holes in flesh that bled and pressed like honored guests invited to the slaughter, and wracked with pain, I slurred profane and left a stain like thousands butchered all in white.
I grasped her, gasped, and asked for more. Sweat-slicked, she licked me quivering, a tease and taste of what's in store.
Then wrapped her painted claws around my neck.
She saddled me, straddling, gripped twixt her thighs, then rose like Leviathan and writhed like the tides that ebb and flow unsure of where to cum or blow away all reason. I'm a sucker for succor, the succubus binds, my hands to the bedposts with intestinal twine, pulled from my guts while she arched, mid-ride, and she clawed at my jaw, scratching, snatched out my eyes to cast o'er her shoulder and feed to the wine that sat watching and lapping at the sweat on her spine, admiring the glistening flesh from behind and praying that sweetest death soon would be mine.
She suckled the pith from the pits of my body and drank from the marrow that spilled down her chest, but though I was beaten I would not be bested, I wrapped round her throat and felled her, uncontested, then dropped out of sight, evanescent. I prowled down the length of her legs, nipping and snapping, more rabid than torrid, and sordidly, doggedly, reached her painted toes to catch and suck, twitching, brought to heel and fuck. Then finally, sputtered and spattered the last, and splattered the fruits of this amorous clasp on her ass and collapsed with first light.
As if it were the first time every night.
Lecherously Yours,
-S.R.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Remorse (A Plague on Words Part IV)
All my friends are dead, because I have killed them. I left them hanged from gallows built with good intentions, made mockeries of life by the carrion birds I led to roost.
Lost in lust I've crossed from thought in search of more and left with naught but empty words and breathless seconds. My promises are furred with lies that lay their eggs betwixt your thighs and eat the rotten things I've left inside. For all my shining armor, I have ever been just night.
I've squandered all my precious gifts on tips of tongues and bloodied lips, turning virtuous into rapturous and lascivious like me. And ravenous to pleasure us and dip her teeth to feed.
She wreathes my body, ringed with flame like Jormungandr's coiled mass. She presses lips and hips like shards of glass and burns me all to ash. She steels my heart and steals my wrath to feed into her own, and polishes volcanic glass whereupon I've built my throne, still not exempt from throwing stones.
I reek like spoiled fruit, displaying bruises still unhealed, from conquests past and yet to cum, from shower stall to field. And once again, the need arisen brings all thought to heel, and spins a golden web of lies that throbs and screams and will not yield.
I'm a snake wearing charm like a three-piece suit. When I go to meet the gods, even Lopt will sneer in derision. I've infringed on sacred oaths, that writhe and rise like tepid smoke, a sewer immolation.
I want, like Hell, to atone for all the vile things I've been, but bad blood tinged with bile swells my veins.
Scrying and lying I spatter my woes to force-feed my serpent tempestuous holes. Plying the sea of your soft-hearted notions to pity the player of sublte emotion. Gasping, aghast as it dawned with the morn, the spawn of my seeding was soon to be borne. I spurred in her loins like a cataract-ridden bone.
Lingering love leads a life well allured, by callously breaking the laws of its Lord. Lying, alike, leads to leaving alone and listlessly longing for lightning, to strike from the skies and scatter the sties that litter my vision with old homicides wherein even Divinity fell for my crimes: She offered salvation that I turned aside and mocked as she went forth to ride.
Glowering while souring my glorious ways. Empower then devour in a gossamer haze. Deflowered by the hour of my opulent sway.
I have neither fear nor rage to shield me in her fragrant cage. Enlightenment alights, deranged upon my thorn-kissed head. I am crucified, but not to banish sin, I relish in the sick-sweet smell of death upon my skin.
Pasting over wetter dreams with better screams from bitter theives who worship my forbidden themes, all rife with rites and right to be, for shreiking shrike contention to celestial fiends.
I've murdered friends and malcontents and left the carcasses as grim portent. All spokes upon my great contempt. Slavering while savoring the soft meat at her throat, I tore a wolvish tour straight to the core. I left the soul to roam.
As if true love could bind her home.
Eden is a burned-out husk and all who live will die by dusk, as struck by this foul stroke of luck. These midnight chimes will cease to rhyme as silence reigns at last.
Apologetically, Apathetically Yours,
-S.R.
Lost in lust I've crossed from thought in search of more and left with naught but empty words and breathless seconds. My promises are furred with lies that lay their eggs betwixt your thighs and eat the rotten things I've left inside. For all my shining armor, I have ever been just night.
I've squandered all my precious gifts on tips of tongues and bloodied lips, turning virtuous into rapturous and lascivious like me. And ravenous to pleasure us and dip her teeth to feed.
She wreathes my body, ringed with flame like Jormungandr's coiled mass. She presses lips and hips like shards of glass and burns me all to ash. She steels my heart and steals my wrath to feed into her own, and polishes volcanic glass whereupon I've built my throne, still not exempt from throwing stones.
I reek like spoiled fruit, displaying bruises still unhealed, from conquests past and yet to cum, from shower stall to field. And once again, the need arisen brings all thought to heel, and spins a golden web of lies that throbs and screams and will not yield.
I'm a snake wearing charm like a three-piece suit. When I go to meet the gods, even Lopt will sneer in derision. I've infringed on sacred oaths, that writhe and rise like tepid smoke, a sewer immolation.
I want, like Hell, to atone for all the vile things I've been, but bad blood tinged with bile swells my veins.
Scrying and lying I spatter my woes to force-feed my serpent tempestuous holes. Plying the sea of your soft-hearted notions to pity the player of sublte emotion. Gasping, aghast as it dawned with the morn, the spawn of my seeding was soon to be borne. I spurred in her loins like a cataract-ridden bone.
Lingering love leads a life well allured, by callously breaking the laws of its Lord. Lying, alike, leads to leaving alone and listlessly longing for lightning, to strike from the skies and scatter the sties that litter my vision with old homicides wherein even Divinity fell for my crimes: She offered salvation that I turned aside and mocked as she went forth to ride.
Glowering while souring my glorious ways. Empower then devour in a gossamer haze. Deflowered by the hour of my opulent sway.
I have neither fear nor rage to shield me in her fragrant cage. Enlightenment alights, deranged upon my thorn-kissed head. I am crucified, but not to banish sin, I relish in the sick-sweet smell of death upon my skin.
Pasting over wetter dreams with better screams from bitter theives who worship my forbidden themes, all rife with rites and right to be, for shreiking shrike contention to celestial fiends.
I've murdered friends and malcontents and left the carcasses as grim portent. All spokes upon my great contempt. Slavering while savoring the soft meat at her throat, I tore a wolvish tour straight to the core. I left the soul to roam.
As if true love could bind her home.
Eden is a burned-out husk and all who live will die by dusk, as struck by this foul stroke of luck. These midnight chimes will cease to rhyme as silence reigns at last.
Apologetically, Apathetically Yours,
-S.R.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Daydreams and Nocturnal Flights
I have spent the days this last week dreaming of twined fingers and lips brushed, teasingly, to lips. I have thought of exploring your mouth, of the rising tongue to halt my advance and the battle that ensues. I imagine capturing your eyes with mine and then tasting the smile on your lips.
You do not haunt me, as women are so often said to haunt the minds of men. You do not inhabit the dank corners of my mind, flitting from the light. Rather, you are radiant, illuminating every thought of you like a beacon. Like emerging from the void of deep space into a nebula. You create for every fragment of this world I destroy, crafting when I would disassemble.
I have spent the days dreaming of kissing you and the nights drinking those thoughts away, so on the morrow I might dream them again.
I dream of dancing in slow circles beneath streetlights on deserted city lanes, and seeing the leaves here fall into your hair beside the lake while the sun sets over the Poconos and winter creeps into the valley. I wonder at how snow would look, clinging to you like a second skin while below us the Hudson freezes.
There is a childish wonder in me, perhaps because of the novelty of all this. Perhaps because I could be so easily captured in your palms, held up to the light, and blown away like so much ash on a cool summer breeze.
I dream of other things. Your wrists pinned beneath my hands, held tight above your head and pressed, like our bodies, into my bed. The rocking of hips, the sharp intake of air, eyes squeezed shut, fists clenched, toes curled. I dream of gnashing teeth and passion, sweat and silk and your voice in my ear. A fervent whisper without coherent thought, without complete words. Here, too, I dream of lips teasing kisses as if I cannot get enough. I dream of craving you like a junkie, and aching nights when my fingers reach for you and grasp at cold, empty sheets. I dream of longing more powerful than even I, who so relishes in physical delights, in the comfort of flesh and bone and thrumming heartbeats, have never known. A need I can not surmount.
I will dream, until these dreams spin out into reality.
Nightly Yours,
-S.R.
You do not haunt me, as women are so often said to haunt the minds of men. You do not inhabit the dank corners of my mind, flitting from the light. Rather, you are radiant, illuminating every thought of you like a beacon. Like emerging from the void of deep space into a nebula. You create for every fragment of this world I destroy, crafting when I would disassemble.
I have spent the days dreaming of kissing you and the nights drinking those thoughts away, so on the morrow I might dream them again.
I dream of dancing in slow circles beneath streetlights on deserted city lanes, and seeing the leaves here fall into your hair beside the lake while the sun sets over the Poconos and winter creeps into the valley. I wonder at how snow would look, clinging to you like a second skin while below us the Hudson freezes.
There is a childish wonder in me, perhaps because of the novelty of all this. Perhaps because I could be so easily captured in your palms, held up to the light, and blown away like so much ash on a cool summer breeze.
I dream of other things. Your wrists pinned beneath my hands, held tight above your head and pressed, like our bodies, into my bed. The rocking of hips, the sharp intake of air, eyes squeezed shut, fists clenched, toes curled. I dream of gnashing teeth and passion, sweat and silk and your voice in my ear. A fervent whisper without coherent thought, without complete words. Here, too, I dream of lips teasing kisses as if I cannot get enough. I dream of craving you like a junkie, and aching nights when my fingers reach for you and grasp at cold, empty sheets. I dream of longing more powerful than even I, who so relishes in physical delights, in the comfort of flesh and bone and thrumming heartbeats, have never known. A need I can not surmount.
I will dream, until these dreams spin out into reality.
Nightly Yours,
-S.R.
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