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.

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.

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.

'Bout to Bring the Pain

So, Bin Laden is dead and...what a surprise, you're all still ridiculous. I was told by a customer yesterday that Obama has refused to release the photos of Bin Laden's corpse. Although, replace the words "Bin Laden's corpse" in that sentence with the word proof. Fucking proof. Well, you know where this is going.

First, I'm not even going to comment on the people who are still, despite the undoubtedly wide-spread readership I enjoy and my uniquely persuasive way of arguing my point, insisting that the War on Terror is, in any way, keeping everyday Americans safely driving their SUVs and owning guns. I'm not going to address that because if I have to explain why American soldiers dying in this conflict is actually a noble sacrifice one more fucking time, I'm going to skin and eat the next person I see drinking Coors Light or driving a pick-up truck. Because fuck you.

Second, why do we need proof? He's fuck-off dead. He's not on trial. The men who killed him aren't on trial. Death, Himself, is not on trial. There is no burden of proof to be had. None. If you don't believe the man has died, call Jesse Ventura. I'm sure he'd be more than happy to blow smoke up your ass in exchange for a bag of crystal meth and a rimjob and permission to use your bat-shit crazy rants on television. You'll be famous among even more pathologically fucked up people. Won't mom be proud?

Third, have we forgotten that Osama Bin Laden, despite being a total dick and all infringing on our Freedoms or whatever, was a human fucking being? Is that something we've decided to collectively block out? How morbid are we that we won't accept the death of a man who, just by the way, was in his gods damned twilight years anyway, without seeing a picture of his corpse on CNN? How is that not evil? He's fucking dead! Look, here's the bullet hole! Look at how his face caved in at the impact! Hurray, America!

Sometimes, I fucking hate people.

We lost our shit when we saw that there was celebration in Gaza right after 9/11. Remember that? We were all ready (and by we, I mean you.) to go on over there and start shoving our boots up more brown people's asses. What kind of effect will it have, not only on extremists and generally shithouse crazy people, but on the rest of the world as a whole if we start showing pictures of a dead guy on television? Who the fuck even takes a picture of a man that's just been shot in the head? What are you, the guitarist from Mayhem? Did they make boneshard necklaces out of his skull too? I'm all for America being more brutal and less utterly devoid of both balls and intellect (I'll settle for balls if I have to pick just one) but fuck me, we can probably find another way. Let's start raping women and crucifying children everytime we invade someone. You know, go back to the classics.

This is, allegedly, some sort of civilized, Christian country where other people are free to worship and do as they please (unless that includes building a church with a funny name near some rubble) and yet we're totally willing to go all medieval and start broadcasting the defiled bodies of our enemies?

Don't get me wrong. I'm not sickened by dead bodies. I think having a picture of a dude with a bullet through the skull is great. I think putting bullets in skulls is great. But there's a line between photographing the guy you just killed and broadcasting that photo on all the major news networks, the internet and out into space for all the universe to see that we're not exactly prepared to cross.

How about we just collectively decide that since he's dead and we're not, our dicks are bigger? Isn't that what is most important here?

One of these days I'm going to get kicked out of the America Club. I'm hard-pressed to say, given the people I've seen admitted, that I'd be heartbroken.

Loathsomely Yours,
-S.R.

An Old Man

AN OLD MAN ON HIS LOVER

When I became an old man,
I told my sons
Stories of a woman
I loved,
A long, long time.
I told them of her
Skin like untrod snow,
Hot as a blacksmith’s forge
To the touch,
And her crystal eyes
Like deep, placid water.
I told them how those
Eyes burned
When she laughed.

I told my sons,
As they will tell their sons,
Of the bruises that still arise each
Mid-winter, unbidden,
Unseen, unwanted,
Reminders of the time
She went west, toward
Warmer shores,
And I stayed East,
To fight my wars,
And find my fabled
Treasure in the ice.
I cried sometimes,
As I told my sons about this
Love, but I laughed much more often,
And that, too, brought fresh
Tears to spill down my cheeks
The way her lips once did,
With such unabashed
Sweetness.

My voice rose as I spoke,
As if it, too, was caught in the same throes
Of passion
Our young bodies once were,
Writhing together
In what better poets would call
Rhythmic, loving, beautiful
But better men would call
A flailing sort of motion,
Replete with twisted limbs
And throbbing back.
I was more poet than man
In those days.

I told my sons of
Summer spent and winter
Suffered,
Of spring and autumnal
Wishes.
I told them so they
Would feel the way that
All the world must when they
Look upon this love of mine,
The way I feel.
And thought I never told them,
Your name,
My boys are anything but fools.


AN OLD MAN ON HIS LATE WIFE

I am Shamed, my love.
You would deny me my despair
But listen.
Allow an old man his sorrow.
I can already feel the ache in my bones,
The cold seeping in everywhere.
I have long been the enemy of Time.

I’ve searched a thousand worlds
Of elves and dwarves, trolls and gnomes
Of dragons. Always searching
For my Fountain of Youth.
I have not yet decided which side to take.
I am not ready to meet God.

But I have searched in vain
Because you were my Fountain.
You knew which side to choose, found the Paradise
That I had Lost.
I will keep searching.

Poetic Duality

Vices

I get drunk on long legs,
As smooth as Kentucky moonshine,
And I hang like cigarette smoke
On red lips like sweet Amaretto.
You burn in my throat, in my chest,
Like bourbon,
Smoky and sultry, dizzying
My thoughts and tuning my senses
Like guitar strings.
You are the inspiration
In every fit of drunken laughter,
Every song I ever play,
In the silence and worlds I craft,
You are the summer sunshine,
That kisses my forehead
And the stars that glitter
On the beach at night.

I can’t see you for the haze
Of scotch or mead,
Or wine as golden as
The locks that hide the corners
Of your mouth when you smile,
But I can feel the way your fingers
Fit mine and fill the spaces
Between them,
Like lazy days spent dreaming
Or sunsets,
Where the sky is paved with fire,
And I can drink you down,
In the failing light,
And never, ever, imbibe enough.


Paradise

Come,
Cross this ancient river with me,
And seek the ageless treasure
Beyond.
Oak and maple and golden sun,
The untouched earth
Beckons,
She aches for hands to
Till the virgin soil,
For bare feet to
Race through the emerald grass,
For young lovers to rush,
Naked,
To wash and take their passion
In pristine lakes.

Come,
Hand in hand
Through Eden
Let’s make our solitary way.

Tripping

I want you to drink me, that I might slither down your throat and take up residence in your body. I will not fester, nor grow. I will not take up much space. In fact, you'll hardly know I'm there, save for the slight warmth somewhere near the center of you. I would be pleased, I think, to live there for a time. Basking, perhaps, in your presence. Relishing in the wholeness with which your body encompasses mine.

There is nothing foul in you, I think. Nothing distasteful, nothing diseased. I like that, admire it. I thought surely I would be greeted by some great, churning monstrosity as is so often the case. Some blood-engorged evil, lurking in the small intestine. Some roiling pool of acid in the stomach. Some infectious parasite waiting for a hapless visitor like me to wander by for a meal.

Terrifying as they are, I'm fairly certain spiders live in every inch of my body.

I want you to drink me, that I might feel your lips wrapped around me. There is something fascinating about the idea. Something so utterly captivating. I have never been more thoroughly romanced than while inside your mouth.

I want you to peel back my skin. Look with wonder at what you find beneath. Replace my bones and sinew with parts of you. String my limbs to my body with tendrils of soul and give me form with odds and ends collected from your memories.

As much as I yearn to be inside you, I need you to be my insides.

Yours,
-S.R.

The Cyclic Nature of Peace

I've picked up the pieces of my shattered peace. I found them lying, as all my things, scattered about the rooms in this old place. Some of them were covered in dust and I thought, briefly, that if I coveted them so much I would not let them become lost as they did. I found a few in cupboards, set beside glass jars where my lovers remain frozen. Others I swept from beneath the couches and carpets, as if I had hurried to tidy up this room or that in preperation for company, without bothering to do a thorough job. So unlike me, I'd like to think. Realistically, I'm sure it's entirely characteristic.

I gathered the pieces, the shards, and arranged them on the table. Some were large, some small. Some were sharp, their edges honed like tiny, jagged teeth or the serrated edge of some improbable sword. Others were round, smooth, practically mirrors the way they captured the light and reflected it back at me in my own image.

I'm not sure why, of all the things I've left here, I went in search of peace. The long months at sea, and the awakening thing that lives in the shadowed parts of me should not look for peace. Perhaps I found it just by coincidence. Perhaps not. I'm not looking to reclaim it. I will not put the pieces back together like some metaphoric jigsaw puzzle. I will not, either, discard them entirely. There is an empty jar nearby. I suppose...no.

In the midst of pondering, I am reminded that not all old things are fit to be remembered fondly, or at all. Simply because something was, it may not necessarily be worth keeping around, cluttering up this already cluttered place. Neither, I find, are new things always to be feared. Tonight, I am exhilirated.

I am borne up on the hands of countless, faceless masses, crowded together, evidently, for no reason other than to lift me above their heads. A kiss, I thought, perhaps a kiss. The thought was fleeting, like light leaving a star for the vast expanse of nothing. It fluttered away. Or flitted. Or fled. I can not recall. The train of thought picks up speed now, the engines make a throbbing sound like a heartbeat. Palpitation. If it beat so quickly I would surely die. Impossible.

I am torn between th absolute certainty of my own immortality, and the very real suspicion that, if your lips were to seal themselves to mine, until all I could imagine was the taste of your tongue, I would die a thousand times. Indeed, your fingers twining between mine, despite the long-standing imagery of unity it evokes, would surely see me sundered from this flesh and hurtled out, like so much starlight, into the Void.

I am so like a child. Enamoured for all the world with little things. Subtle hints of my own divination. Silly things. Simple things.

I long for a kiss, and so perhaps that thought did not flee like the others. I have yearned for many things, both innocent and perverse. Beneficent and maleficent. This, I think, may be all of that and more. Whole nations have burned for less. Men have stood and struck down great evil for less.

Tonight, for the first time in weeks or months or eons, I am content not to take and conquer and destroy. I am satisfied without leaving the marks of my passing in your flesh, or leaving scars on your bones. I am, oddly, peaceful.

Stricken from my reverie, I can't help but wonder when I managed to put those pieces back together.

Humbly Yours,
-S.R.