The Weeping Willows of a Walrus

Pillow Talk

2012-01-23T15:10:00.000-08:00

-What was her girlfriend’s name?
--‘Sue’
-Who?

These fingers travel yonder onto skin and flesh
In the crevice of your lung and kidney
Between the hip and the lowest rib
Sweet ripples of sensation: it tickles --
I know.
In the way your nose begins to crinkle
At the brow –
Creases of your velvet skin folded into one another
Skittle away from my grip
Just when I nip from the fruit of joy –
Wasted nectar trickling down your throat
Tonsils to jugular vein – a honey dipped thorax.
Mesh flesh to flesh
and skin to skin:
The bubble gum of
sugar will hold it all together --
A jungle of limbs:
hands, feet, arms, legs, elbows, knees.
Our very own little
cemetery of human remains
Shredded bodies – naked to the bone
Muscles flexed,
tendons tightened, veins pumped,
The rhythmic whistle
of a single heart beat.
We lay it to rest on
a feathered pillow
Where multicolored
nightingales waddle – scrambling to revolve
This shrine we built – a Mecca of memories.
The warm burn and the cool release of sizzling sweat
As bubbling beads scurry
from your forehead
Diving into the pool
of cotton --
To the music of
bustling bed sheets
A city of white noise – and we trample
The hustling birds beneath our soaking human samples.
So the Church bells tinkle away
As night passes into day – a golden crust of light appears
The red ring of flame placed on a mantel
This space is ample --
We’ll bury the dead and give birth anew
To our sorrow, hope, love, lust, anger, revenge, happiness:
As time sidles away
From the tight grasp
of your small hand
I’ll swindle fate and
trick destiny
Into believing – if I
belong anywhere, I belong here.

You break free from
my arms and onto cold marble.

As I skip back and
forth -- jumping from dream to reality
Floating in the
middle: Your stomach to my chest --
My head to your chest
And nose buried in
the sticky scent of your neck
Traced with saliva
A noose of kisses
Then you stroke the
puddle of my love –

Skin stretched
against skin:
Teeth
Chin
Cheeks
It tickles: I know.
When you smile, I
can’t help but follow suit.

Rintrah

2011-10-28T13:59:00.000-07:00

Like a volcano of emotion expressed in a song,
The movement emulates urgency
And the relapses of muscular mechanism fall into a dance.
This heart skips too many beats to count.

So I sing of songs in silence,
To the hum of my breath as my legs break into a run.
Far into the abyss of my past,
These kisses prolong, but the first I will never forget.

Like water, my skin swam into pores,
A perfect fit; the crevice of my distant body as it
lingered,
And a child-like innocence returned,
As I willed to be reborn.

I remember the yearning in my abdomen,
For the forsaken memory of a love so distant,
And when I see the music flow in you,
It reminds me of the babe who played with broken toys on the
pavement

A splash of wave took her tiny jewels away,
She picked flowers to be her friends and trees to be magical
escapades.

I smile only to pretend to be content
A feeling I cannot share with the world
For without sorrow,
Who are we?

And without love,
Who am I?

Questo Amore!

2011-10-18T20:47:00.000-07:00

I am made of glass.
I speak with reflection
I walk with care
I do not dare break
Into a billion little pieces.

I am made of crass metal sheen.
I listen with inane attention
To every word you throw away
I do not dare solute
Into a million little pieces.

I am made of apples and cinnamon
I taste like jam; like spices
This pull of gravity weighs me
towards roots
I do not dare fall
And break into a thousand little pieces.

I am made of salt
I act with deliberate gestures of
coarseness
This bitterness is only a
fleeting flaw
I do not dare dissolve
And break into a hundred little pieces.

I am made of water
I am only as fickle as my
thoughts
This wave of emotion will subside
I do not dare burst
Into a ten little pieces.

I am made of Earth
This clay porcelain came of heat
and combustion
This anger is the only source of
my heartbeat
I do not dare melt
Into one little piece.

That is you.

That is clear. Opaque. But. Clear.

Song: For Virginia

2011-05-06T23:25:00.000-07:00

Jugular vein.

It throbs in my jugular vein.

‘Leave me.’

It hurts where my blood flows.

Like sharp needles piercing through my life support.

Bum dum. Bum deed um dum.

The rhythm of your existence, I cannot sleep anymore.

Without the music of your heartbeat.

The Mumbo Jumbo. Drum drumming drummed in my ears as I lay on your chest.

Thinking of days when I was younger.

Politer. Kinder. Perhaps, happier.

Days of yesteryears. When I was still a dreamer.

Counting the spaces between us. Singing in silence of the unsaid.

Miscalculated misconceptions.

The unspeakable. The unworthy of being said.

Always.

Wondering where you were, there, near me; as I went yonder into familiarity.

Grounds I left to venture into the unknown.

The forgotten desire to know more than need be.

‘What are you thinking?’

Rhetorical questions, I beg you to answer.

Well aware that you were far beyond my reach.

Convulsing in silence.

Meditating upon your own private mysteries.

Yet.

I plead and plead.

Just to feel your limbs vibrate as the sounds that keep our joints moist rush through your mouth.

My skin prickles.

I’m happy.

I’m happy, when I’m silent with you.

Unprecedented.

Lucky me.

I thought for a day or two.

‘I want you to just leave me.’

Alone.

I was alone for too long.

I’ve been alone for too long.

Silent without you for too long to know better than to say anything at all.

Too long.

I’ve been silent for too long to know what to say anymore.

‘I like you.’

Tremble. Shiver. Quiver.

Please.

Talk, voices, words.

They ruin us.

You. Me. Us.

‘I just need you to leave.’

It pricked into my skin.

The unwarranted need to kiss.

I floated above ground for a second.

But, I’m human. More or less.

Things I’ve done. Truth be told.

Demon like almost.

I’m still human.

More or less.

Fix it.

I can fix it.

‘Nothing to fix.’

Nothing.

I have nothing left to offer.

Don’t you hear the emptiness rumbling inside me?

‘I watched you sleeping, twitching, grinding your teeth.’

I twitch because I cannot forget.

I grind my teeth in vain for the lost.

Nightmares.

Sounds. I make sounds with my organs. Crying for the comfort of having something to promise.

The luxury of something to give to someone you want to hold.

I will not forget.

The day my organs broke into smithereens and became liquid instead.

I can still fix it.

How my jugular vein throbbed.

How the rhythm vanquished.

Bum dum. Bum deed um dum.

The Mumbo Jumbo. My heartbeat slowly disappeared into the void.

Smoldering slowly, painfully inside it's own hollow cavity.

I heard the throbbing.

When the light from within me evaporated. Dissolving into the people around me.

Bullet holes. Smoke rings.

I have time.

I can fix it.

I was brave. Once. I was invincible.

I was the kid with a leather satchel bag stuffed with stolen beer cans.

I jumped roof top to roof top.

Rambling senseless prophesies as they looked.

Drunk on youth and pride. Once, I was foolish enough to be truly alive.

I yelled, screamed and kicked, ‘I will change the world.’

The child in me avenged, ‘I will change this world.’

Fickle promises were howled at the moon, ‘I will change this world, before it ever changes me.’

I was brave. Once, long ago, I was alive.

You would have liked me. Better. I was better.

‘You’re not good for me.’

It wouldn’t have hurt me.

I could have fixed it.

‘I don't want you around.’

Hope.

I could have fixed it with hope.

Drum, drumming, drummed as I lay listening to hope die.

The day I lost my innocence.

Absence

2011-02-08T12:52:00.000-08:00

I held onto a wet railing,

For I used to be afraid of falling

Meshing into the sublime cools of the gushing water

As bubbles of air leaked onto the surface

Rinsed foam collected at the bottom

From where I stood

Everything was clear.

Parts of me are crippled,

These legs became inept from walking,

Towards the place where we smoked high hues.

Together behind the school campus

My arms were disabled from holding

Onto your weight

For life,

I held onto you for life.

Dear, dear life.

I found you in the hollows of this perpendicular sphere,

Running away from all that was near.

You survived with three stitches above your left knee

When you fell towards the black hole

Attempting motionless symmetry,

I kissed those lovely ears,

As your lips moved to spell existential philosophy

In part I listened.

Some I remember,

The songs you sang when we sat on green grass

And you cradled my head in your lap.

I remember some.

Most I forgot.

But if I ever see you again,

It will all come back to me.

Song: To Celia

2011-02-06T21:59:00.000-08:00

Come, my Celia, let us prove,

While we can, the sports of love;

Time will not be ours forever;

He at length our good will sever.

Spend not then his gifts in vain.

Suns that set may rise again;

But if once we lose this light,

’Tis with us perpetual night.

Why should we defer our joys?

Fame and rumor are but toys.

Cannot we delude the eyes

Of a few poor household spies,

Or his easier ears beguile,

So removèd by our wile?

’Tis no sin love’s fruit to steal;

But the sweet thefts to reveal,

To be taken, to be seen,

These have crimes accounted been.

--Ben Jonson--

Flirtation

2011-02-06T21:57:00.000-08:00

After all, there’s no need

to say anything

at first. An orange, peeled

and quartered, flares

like a tulip on a wedgewood plate

Anything can happen.

Outside the sun

has rolled up her rugs

and night strewn salt

across the sky. My heart

is humming a tune

I haven’t heard in years!

Quiet’s cool flesh—

let’s sniff and eat it.

There are ways

to make of the moment

a topiary

so the pleasure’s in

walking through.

--Rita Dove--

Sonnet 40

2011-02-06T21:53:00.000-08:00

Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all:

What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?

No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call—

All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.

Then if for my love thou my love receivest,

I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;

But yet be blamed if thou this self deceivest

By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.

I do forgive thy robb’ry, gentle thief,

Although thou steal thee all my poverty;

And yet love knows it is a greater grief

To bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury.

Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,

Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes.

--William Shakespeare--

My Lover Gave Me Green Leaves

2011-02-06T21:46:00.000-08:00

My lover gave me green leaves

with the mud of the garden on them,

radishes sharp and red,

nasturtium flames.

He gave me the tender heart

of a cabbage, its glossy coat,

a loaf of bread studded deep with seeds.

He gave me the note the blackbird

I’d cried at the blackness of by the river sang.

He gave me the struck fire of the thoughts

in his mind—flint on flint.

He gave me the taste,

direct on his tongue,

of the syllables their embers did not destroy.

He gave me his word,

the word of an Adam—a promise,

should he set eyes on the sun.

He gave me a drop of the dew to hold.

To see my face in it.

To look through.

He gave me, in the chrisomed palm

of his empty hand—a gasp of joy.

--Josephine Dickinson--

Buying the Whore

2010-09-18T08:52:00.000-07:00

You are the roast beef I have purchased
and I stuff you with my very own onion.

You are a boat I have rented by the hour
and I steer you with my rage until you run aground.

You are a glass that I have paid to shatter
and I swallow the pieces down with my spit.

You are the grate I warm my trembling hands on,
searing the flesh until it’s nice and juicy.

You stink like my Mama under your bra
and I vomit into your hand like a jackpot
its cold hard quarters.

--Anne Sexton--

The Negro Speaks of Rivers

2010-09-18T08:46:00.000-07:00

I’ve known rivers:
I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow
of human blood in human veins.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went
down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn
all golden in the sunset.
I’ve known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.
My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

--Langston Hughes--

I Am.

2010-09-18T08:11:00.000-07:00

I'm the enchanted forest without the magical tree. I'm the flying saucer in an alien land. The sanitary pad in a nun's lap. The rabid dog in the quarantined zone. The tattered rag on an urchin's face. The saliva stuck to the cheesecake. The childhood bicycle lying in the shed. The stringless guitar under the bed. The doodlings on the torn pages of the high school journal. The flat tyre on the beach trip. The jagged rock that makes you bleed. The crab bite that makes you cringe. The clear water than makes you see. Things you cannot be. I'm the anomaly in an alternate reality. Blessed with divine symmetry and anthropomorthic inanities. The empty bottle of champagne. The mute shouts of a dying soldier. The metallic hulk of a defunct submarine lying in a junkyard. The silhouetted vampire hunting criminals in the dark. The swiveling bottle of Cuty Sark. The detectable sperm in the dung pile. The doomed worker in a coal mine. As much barbiturate as amphetemine. I'm Vishnu and Shiva combined. The politicized ferociousness of a Moulvi gone asinine. The red cheek of a slapped school-child. The bleeding nose of the thrashed wife. The glow of a toddler's smile. Within me, Oedipus and Electra combined. The ceaseless maternal fretting that drives sons wild. Fatherly nonchalance that makes you deprived. The malicious pettiness of the political giants. All this and more. I am. I continue to be.

--Hussain Dada--

When I Am Not There

2010-05-29T10:07:00.000-07:00

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there
I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glimpse of snow
I am the sunlight on a ripened grain
I am the gentle Autumn's rain
Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there
I did not die.

--Desperate Housewives--

The wound on my leg reminds me of a vagina

2010-04-11T10:19:00.000-07:00

In justification of the subject designated to this particularly uneventful message:

How the bleeding wound and the velvet skin ripped open into a perfect V, reminded me of an oyster shell. As the white pulp seeped through the mouth, tiny drops of diamond reminded me of a lone woman masturbating in her dead husband’s bed. I used a cotton ball to dab the blood which stained my white shorts and left a mistresses’ lipstick marks through the transparent skin of cloth. A seductive smile. A crimson tainted smile. The blood collected into an eyeball and I saw the reflection of a woman in labor. The pink walls of her innards expanding to let the passage of life flow within her, from her, through her. The pain quivered in my bones, much like the casual touch of the woman you love, the side glance of a friend you once kissed in the school yard, the laugh of a father who belittles your every achievement, the nonchalance of the mother who betrayed your innocence, and much like the lies you told as a child which eventually ate away your soul.

It’s funny how everything we are and everything we will be is only a mirage of everything we hoped to be.

Hence the resemblance. Do you see it?

Sometimes

2010-04-04T11:28:00.000-07:00

In the contours of my heart
I weep ink droplets of tears
And smear these tiny booklets of sorrow
I write in hopes for you to hear
The wit, the satire, the humor, the vanity
These words which compromise my very grains of sanity
Sometimes I wonder; if love has finally taken its toll on reality.

In the crisp winter nights
My hollow cries shatter glass domains
For I tend to bestow cruelty galore
To those you lure
Into the compound festivity of your heart’s desire
Never have I had the chance to hear
These wordless dreams you sing with eyes glistening in fear
Sometimes I wonder; if love has finally taken its toll on my lover’s tears.

In the dewy afternoons of autumn
I dream of endless possibilities
To inflict countless brutalities
On this forsaken mass of flesh
Crimson, violet, ringlets of appearing blush
How I pretend to suffer in my aching insomnia
All the pain and bruises I bear are for my nymphomania
Cure me somehow,
For I live as I dream…alone…
Sometimes I wonder; if love has finally taken its toll on these lone bones.

In the shadows of my fleeting grace
I wish to lament my fawning self through these blood-stained traces
Just to take a peep into the bedroom
Where you undress so patiently, so carelessly,
Take you by surprise, for these kaleidoscopes of time
Have turned my skin into bits and pieces of lime
If the Virgin Mary be so kind,
I shall slip my tongue into your mouth, kiss you on the sly
And whisper secrets into the bowels of your spirit
Only to hang myself inside out
In the wooden crate, seven feet below this heaving earth
Alas! For this life, shall matter least to me, from that day forth

Sometimes…

Because I know, that love has finally taken its toll on me and so much more.

Doth I Protest

2010-03-01T11:34:00.000-08:00

Look into the ball of time
How it circles in a rhythm of ecstasy?
I wonder, if there is any symmetry
In the little eye I see whirling beside me
Two large eyes, blue, green,
Staring into the void,
Undressing me in the silence of all this turmoil
Wear me low, abuse me slow,
Polaroid curses, black tattoos of sorrow

Mark me too…
Love me too…

Look into the ball of crime
How it sins in the camisoles of disgrace?
I sit to wonder, if there is anymore left to lose
In the soft meshes of these linen lies
Two pleasures eating away at my soul, guilt, vanity,
Copulating in the reeking shadows of this brothel
Kiss me with your teeth, buried into the layers of my many skins
Make me bleed some more, bruise me brighter,
Seductive cuts, purple bends of regret

Fuck me too…
Don’t leave me too…

Fables for One

2010-01-08T12:57:00.000-08:00

The best strawberry I ever ate was a garnish.
It spread inside my mouth
like a little lie,
molars doing their best
truth, truth, truth
while the juices crept sugary into the crevices
where I store my words.

The sweet accessory
stuck itself to my vocabulary
my red becoming redder
and reddest,
the only red.

Later, I was touching names,
and licking my fingers,
poking around in my teeth for adjectives,
wanting to tell you
how I spent my day alone,
but finding only the same other
surrounding every crown,
the taste in my mouth all like tiny seeds.

It was true
what I said about the strawberry
but I spread it like a little lie.

The Invitation

2009-10-18T08:33:00.000-07:00

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, 'Yes.'

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

Oriah Mountain Dreamer

Beware

2009-08-05T13:46:00.000-07:00

Beware of all the pretty faces that you find
A pretty face can hide an evil mind
Ah, be careful of what you say
Or you'll just give yourself away.

Beware of all the kind words you hear
A kind word can veil spite to tear
Ah, be careful of what you don’t say
Or you’ll just lose yourself to another pompous tale.

Beware of all your secret lovers
A forlorn lover will never find comfort in closure
Ah, be careful of those you love
Or you’ll just forsake yourself like this fleeting dove.

Beware of all the past you find today
A memory you disintegrated to keep at bay
Ah, be careful of the lies you disclose
Or you’ll just disappear into the reflection of your own monstrosity up close.

Beware…

Odds are slim; perhaps, you will never live to see tomorrow.

A Glass of Wine

2009-08-05T13:40:00.000-07:00

Raise ti's only a glass of wine
Drink to the corpse of your wallowing youth
Every child must bear the crimes of it's time
For it is only deemed fit for us all to mime
The living and the dead alike

Drink to the courage you muster for a morrow you shall sow
The conjugal responsibilities you belie
The self you must tie
In the broken mire of your collapsing body and soul
For no man has ever foretold,
The secrets of a young heart so bold

Drink to the life you owe.
A syndrome of heartache you coax
Day in, day out
Come hither, kiss me slow.
Pace the pavements of holy landscapes
In myths and fibs you were told as a warrior
Not so long ago.

Oh little one!
How we drink and drink some more for the solace we wish to score
Lovers and demons, begin to resemble one and the other
Long before we know, the short-sightedness of our heart's core

Happiness

Godliness

Goodness

Holiness

Ah! Drink to the utopia you and I yearn to partake
On this lowly pilgrims quest
Lest you decide to forsake me in the shadows of my distress
Fuss, I shall
But none the less
I will soothe my soul and parade the aisle in my wedding dress
For I have already begun to see
El Dorado in the silhouette of my maiden’s nest

Alas! I will drink, for ti's only wine.

My Madonna

2008-12-09T11:43:00.000-08:00

My Madonna: Is a pica-ninny playing the piccolo for these waltzing plants; shyly serenading her forlorn lover’s shadows in the crevices of a prophet’s cradle. ‘Lucifer, take me with you to the skies above and cremate my body in the fires below. Spare my ashes for the devil, I owe. Seize my soul for I yearn to know the fruits of these divine seeds we sow. Tear me into bits and pieces, have no mercy on this broken body, I wish to mutilate no more. I pray. Oh Lucifer! How I pray to let go…’

My Madonna: Is the pi of a circle you circumnavigate a thousand years before you really know the secrets of your own soul. Thereupon, you burn into scarlet flames. Phut! You cease to exist. If you meet this Madonna of mine, your eyes will conflagrate and the shards of your shattered heart with pierce your thoughtless mind. Light! There will always be light. These picaresques', I write, for she tells me so. Once she whispered into my barren soul. Said she would paint my body, one day, never today, in crimson alcohol. Maybe, yesterday. Perhaps, tomorrow. I wait. And I wait. For she has told me so. But love, these bells toll no more. Ti's her dervish demeanor. I disintegrate. Evaporate. I can never be whole.

My Madonna: Hovers at the foot of my peasant’s bed. Ah, a woman in a golden robe. Stands on this alter, of this sinful brothel. How she undresses me with her cruel gray eyes. My Madonna is the sacristan of this sacrilegious Church. Protestant. Catholic. Agnostic. Evangelist. Gothic. Atheist. She probes her blade like nails into my skin and cuts my wrist open. I watch how the profane blood gushes forth. Prickling infinitesimal cubes of salt melt into the boiling pool of my spewing clots of self-loathing. With her delicate fingers she peals the dead flesh off; beings to nibble at the transparent film of conglomerated cells ravenously. ‘The sacrament of my confession,’ she spits sadistically. I become a part of her. I am alive within her. Alas! Immortality has buried me into the agelessness of this lifeless woman.

My Madonna: Probes her thumb into the hemorrhaging wound. I clutch my fist into a white ball of pain. Bite your tongue, let her twist and turn inside you, within you, without you. I watch as she presses her finger against my stretched skin. The innards of my arm aching. The lesion expanding, tearing at the edges; foams of grotesque pulp bubble through. ‘This is a mark of your womanhood.’ A paper thin layer plasters my sanity. Creases of a silky web smear across my wrist. Like a vagina; the diamond shape of a woman’s oral cavity. My decree of sacrifice. The heirloom of her love. The tainted memory of her existence. She reaps in me. For I implant her desire to live no more.

My Madonna: Rips open her gold satin robes. I lay and watch her, one hand between my legs. The soft folds of her lips quiver. How they part into a skewered smile. This room is my Ashram. I find my deities smuggling senseless words to me in the silhouette of her empire. I beseech them wordlessly to leave my maiden and me alone in sinful fumes of our exhausting passion. Alas! My Madonna smiles shamelessly at her own objectification. The afternoon ting of orange bounces off of her olive tanned skin. She moves closer, swaying her hips elusively. She intertwines her fingers with mine and dissolves them one at a time, into her mouth. She sucks at them seductively, slowly, warmly. Ripples of orgasm begin to seize me. I am overwhelmed. I grab her fragile neck and shift her towards me. I bite her sagging lip. Slip my tongue into the soft meshes of her dissolving orifice. She strokes her tongue over the teeth indentations she left behind. My tongue rolls into itself. Deeper. I want to be deeper within. I disentangle the idiom on my tongue, in towards her breathless void. Her golden ash hair fall between our gravity defined emptiness. I trace her subtle skin, the curves on her back. In my hand, in my mouth, inside me, on top of me, beneath the wilted unconsciousness of my body; I want to be within her. I want to be her.

My Madonna: Murmurs in my right ear, ‘Fuck me!.' The web of skin, the crumbling of perception, the dissolution of time, the liquefaction of pores befitting into the traces of two souls at once; only for her. I cease to exist, for her. Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow. Just for her. I part her legs and watch her blazing womanhood decoying my credulous thoughts. The Bermuda Triangle of her love. If I leap, I will never return. If I dare to venture deep within her; where upon the apogee of her pleasure lies a demon, I will have to forsake, life. I trace the petals of her foreskin with the tip of my finger. ‘Please. Fuck me!’ Her back arches into a bridge of explosion, her juices drooling droplets of sparkling diamonds. My aphrodisiac, the solace of my sexual ecstasy, lies in the ectoplasm current of her velvet voice. I sink into the folds of her skin. My finger inside her, traveling the course of her innards, tracking the heartbeat of her organs; I watch in bewilderment as her body folds into itself. I am gripped with an urge to hurt her. I push forth into the endless tunnel of her existence. Gasping, she takes hold of my wrist, thrusting it deep within her. ‘Hurt me more,’ she screams. She wants me to damage her. She wants me imprint her with my imperfections. She wants me to scar her with my rage. She wants me to belong to her.

My Madonna: Is a glove of human flesh on my one, two, three, four, five fingers. My hand forms a rhyme in accordance to her fervor. Her legs long-drawn-out over my shoulders; her fingers hooked into my back, scratching me in unison to her labored breathing. Long lashes of red, purple demarcate her euphoria. She pulls me towards her, her nails biting into the nape of my neck, teething my lip, she submits her mouth. I become the unsung hero of her demise. In that moment, I am the master of her destruction. A perverse need to preserve her engulfs me in rage. I swallow the bitter sage of absurdity. My Madonna becomes my commodity. Oh! But I wish nothing more than to die within her.

My Madonna: I disengage from the ingestion of her irretrievable trail. My hand dyed in red. Melted stones of ruby run down my palm. I smear scarlet over her tender breasts. Her nipples suddenly rigid under the tip of my finger. She shivers. I see my fury reflect in the ball of her eye. I kiss her gently, shading her in tones of blush. Her body is my canvas. I blotch her with the dye of my obsession. I lay myself between her legs. Blood. I drink her blood. Burgundy. Warm. Bitter. Sweet. Metallic. I drink in mouthfuls. Clotted blood streams into the bowl of my palm, I bathe in her blood. Menstrual Blood! The exemplar of a woman’s fertility; I drink from the pool of her fertility. Menstrual Blood! The dogma of a woman’s youth; I drink from the pool of her youth. Menstrual Blood! The epitome of a woman’s sin; I drink from her pool of sin. Menstrual Blood! The unborn child of my love; I drink from the pool of my bastard child’s dead body.

My Madonna: Has painted me in crimson alcohol. ‘Alas! Ti's the sacrament of my love.’ A love so very bold. A love no song could sing. A Love no word could hold. My Madonna…My Madonn…My Madon…My Mado…My Mad…My Ma…My M…My…M…!

The Significance of Silence

2000-01-04T11:33:00.000-08:00

Homo-sapians are a generation of silence.

When God forsake mankind, a pregnant pause hung in the shadows of the afternoon light. God preferred Silence.

When Adam walked the begotten land of sin and salvation, he looked on in bewilderment. Adam was relinquished of all words. He was silent.

When Eve, the mother of all creation emerged from between the ribs of the man who had transgressed, there was an awaiting silence. The angel of birth looked on in approval. Eve was born of the mute cries of a silent man.

When the need to converse over powered man, he spoke with his eyes, with his hands fluently gesturing every notion he envisioned, with his head eloquently dipped over his shoulder.

There was never a need for words. There was never a need to jeopardize emotion, to contaminate a conversation with nature, to extinguish the fire of passion, to conflagrate all ambitious thoughts into a meaningless string of words. There was never a need to belittle the significance of silence.

There were no words.

There will never be enough words to explain what needs to be said.
If at all, I do manage to use words, I will only sink into the abyss of my own pretentious clichés. Therefore I prefer silence. Nothing will be said. Nothing will be misunderstood. Nothing will be forgotten. Nothing will matter. In the end, I will preserve the image of you in my memory forever.

I listen to the soft explosions of your voice whispering secrets I know I’m not supposed to hear. Your lips move in a graceful waltz to the music of my sinking heart. Senseless! Effortless!

Your existence leaves one exposed to bitter thoughts. I could easily pick up a blade and cut myself as an invitation for death to dance around my spewing blood; but instead I embrace silence. I treat myself with the unassailable significance of wordless-ness.

Why do you exist as an entity beyond yourself in my wretched little heart?

Speak no kind words to me for I shall only linger in the shadows beneath your bed. Speak no vindictive words; I will only learn to love the odium within you. Speak of no lessons; I am only a product of my mistakes. Speak of no regrets; I will only punish myself for being a member of this vile society which nourished these grievances. Yours. Mine. Ours. Oh how I would prefer your silence.

Conserve the significance of silence, for me, for yourself, for us.

T’is funny how one lives to love, hopes to be loved, spends a lifetime in preparation of leaping into a world of non existence. When you love, you cease to exist. You are, because love is. But when love abandons, it shatters the remnants of your being into a million little pieces. We wither in our pain, in our misery, in our hollow existence. Perhaps, we grow. When all purpose to live is lost, we can only hope to invest in the past and find salvation in the ruined empires of our happiness. How we disappear for the world, but it never does disappear for us! Ti's funny, how we are only a mockery of ourselves!