Author: writtencasey

Never break your mother’s heart.

All day, they walked the new city until it was unknown no more.

First, they pretended they were very important foreign dignitaries, stopping by shops and chatting up locals to see how their charade fared.

Then, the two of them settled into an imagined familarity with the area, as though they had memories of each cobblestone and awning.

“Do you ever feel home sick for a place you’ve never been?” he asked her.

She said, “only when I have time for pithy emotional existentialism.”

He saw the sheepish smile try to cut through the dead pan expression she attempted. And he knew without a doubt that she understood but could not given him the satisfaction of saying so. She talked a big game, don’t ya know.

There were beasts, naked figures, and divine entities ornamenting the buildings around them; it suggested an era of time that no one on earth could rightly recall anymore. The figures were strange and a bit barbic.

Wild and woolly? Sure, just like how the world is.

Evil or malificant? Unlikely.

So they paid little attention to the immemorial idols whose eyes cast down and over them.

When they stopped for coffee, she sat in her chair and, he in his.

With calculated nonchalance, she uncrossed her legs and spread them apart until the outside of her knee barely touched his leg.

Both acted as though they had not noticed.

As they began walking again, he told her stories of masterful musicians and composers, and she told him their correspondent ancient poets and philosophers. From there, they manipulated time and causation until they derived some flimsy connecting principle which they proudly asserted as the true source of the art.

They played like this until the central piazza was behind them, and the open public areas turned to thin avenues.

Right before the avenues reduced to shadowy alleyways. She smelled smoke heavy in the air and saw the cafe from which these hazy billows were issuing.

She insists they stop in. After all they were on foot and had not a serious thing to do.

Taking an inhale of indica, she feels her eyes refocus and a big grin takes hold of her face. Then she is flooded with notions of of objective beauty and her eyes widen and light up with with glad.

She speaks to him and millions of words issue forth from her mouth and past her lips. And, suddenly everything defamiliarizes before her eyes and the world becomes more wonderous than before.

She turns wanting his attention again, but finds he’s already been watching the cascade of changes occurring inside her.

He seems bemused.

It makes her feel very young and perhaps foolish. But, then she remembers that she is already a great big fool and it makes her heart happy because she is as she knows herself to be.

Except, she wanted to push it now. Indica’s rashness.

And so she found reasons to touch him on his shoulder. Pointing out things she had no interest in to keep the game a foot. She began touching his upper arm each time she spoke, as though she were ennunciating words through physical contact.

He noticed.

She did not notice this, however.

She was already rapt and her skin broke out in gooseflesh.

She never lost the teenage sense of arousal and desire.

The simple things sent a thrill through her: a touch of her wrist to his hand.

The way he smelled when the sun shone on him.

What it felt like to lean in close to his ear, and whisper words.

She felt her breath as she spoke, imagined how it felt breezing lightly into his ear.

Warm, hopefully. Maybe humid and hot even.

She imagined how the timbre of her voice might resonate. She spoke, therefor, lowly but sweetly.

At these thoughts, her breaths grew heavy. Her cheeks burned red.

She felt herself start to turn out from within.

She smelled a hint of the heat coming from between her thighs.

The scent causes her nipples to pucker fully and immedately. And she feels their perk being teased by the cotton camisole grazing her breasts as she moves her body.

Her stomach feels hollow and she wants to turn to face him and press her hips into his until she could feel his aroused cock pushing back against her and hard.

She walked out to the patio.

He followed her.

She imagined the feeling of pressing her naked breasts against his bare chest.

She tapped him on the middle of his chest with one finger.

The way her pert nipples would react to his flesh.

Then she flattened her palm fully against his chest, felt the downhill slope of chest to torso, and she momentarily forgot how to breath.

The way skin on skin starts to stick together with moisture.

He heard the missed breath.

She removed her hand from him and pretended to need to clear her throat.

He laughed and asked if everything was okay.

It made her tremble to hear him ask, because she saw him playing dumb. Truly oblivious people do not have to act unaware, after all.

She would soon feel like a fool again (which is her lovesome nature) or else maybe bring him to the place she wanted him.

And she wanted more than the simple erotic touches. She wanted to be brought to a shameful frenzy of carnal need. She wanted to be sweetly and wholly debased.

But she had patience.

Do not own rights, paying homage.

Eminent songwriter, John Prine, is pretty much the music laureate of songwriters in the Americana/folk country/bluegrass scenes. This is on the scale of your Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan. A real musician’s musician.

Montgomery is Alabama’s capital city.

Yeah, it’s not “hip” song but the character of the organ and key arrangement, very simple, sounds just like a Sunday church service my parents drug me to as a kid. The words sound like a very specific type of ‘worn hard and put up wet’ woman who knows what Southern Gothic means.

Great Dirty South song.