Tag: lovesome

Æ plays my favorite game

Æ dreamt of Blue House, with its strangely angulared architectural

In the tiny library, we saw sharp, slanted writing on every inch of the walls.

Covered in sigils unreadable, sentences ineffable,

Interjections conjuncted with exclamations.

An indifferent, yet, energetic-ally aggressive atmosphere

devoid of hostility.

From there, last night,

I wrote to you :

Will you halt me with your mouth

and show me your mind?

I wonder as

a coquettish muscle spasms in my left foot.

Musculature malefactors.

I love the almost-pain of it.

Malediction, subliminally decried, to inoculate.

What is the difference between chaos

and the constant state of affairs?

Is there one?

Or, does that inclination follow the declination of the earth’s disposition?

⊙

A punk band called No Vigil

battling

A punk band called No Sigil.

⊙

I dreamt I held back the masses of an audience

, for you,

by making them wait on me

while I was waiting on you,

according to some malfeasant line of time.

⊙

Æ asks me: shall we play your favorite game?

What is the difference?

Yes, pleas.

What is the difference

between hidden and secret?

between esoteric and occult?

A cabaline cabal, prancing, at Sette’s auction.

It made you giggle when

my response to your heady sentence was:

Oh my, I do like your phrase “operative formulæ.” How are you spelling it?

Does it make a difference?

⊙

Your forehead wrinkles show a perpetual proclivity for a quizzical, lopsided expression of interested curiosity.

You made yourself the background and

predicate to my subject;

and, in doing so,

you taught me to make others the subject against my background,

the positive space to my negative space,

And, to invert.

⊙

Where the web traps, there does To-Be

become

the difference between to deceive and duplicity.

A copy of the copy of a copy.

What is the difference between revealed and reveiled?

A ‘I’.

“The thraldom of imagined existence.”

A’bridged nuzzling.

The sun made like a runaway today.

Let me lay you on your back, bare.

Crawl up on you like a curious, hungry animal,

and occupy myself with sniffing your scent.

Smells of you.

Because, the smell of the skin below your wrist

is not the smell of the skin stretching over your ankles

is not the smell of the thumping skin above your jugular

nor that of the skin behind your ear.

It will not smell of the skin between your legs

which will not smell as does the stench of your armpit.

Or the smell of your open mouth.

And, my incessant humming

will become Sygyt.

The strangely drone of polyphonic overtone singing.

And once I’m done,

I would pad circles on you

, like a dog preparing to sleep

, of tossing and turning

, and

, wrapping round you.

For warm comfort.

Finding the right proper position of

a deep winter nuzzle.

Feathers of eyelashes

Even in dreams, I remain yours.

I have come for none other.

The smell of chai spice pours skyward from the pot of boiling water.

Vapour blessing the room like sage humbly burned.

Pealing recalling things and those missed.

Blushing cheeks and bitten lip.

°

I have seen the city skies from on high; they light up like an introspective brain’s neural network.

Psst. Wake up.

Pushing my nose deeply into your neck,

to inhale; get your smell.

I wish to entwine the two;

Make the aroma of chai ever tied to the scent of you.

I remind myself to not forget this, mine intent,

whilst batting this piece of your thin skin with

the feathers of my eyelashes.

Dream of a sleepy hum.

Hush and sleep: he says.

You know the effect such words from you, produce in me, brut(e): I think.

I smile and snuggle under the covers.

I thought I could catch you: I mumble, frowning a bit, fretting you will be gone when I re-enliven.

Outside, hail begins softly falling.

Palm up

Relishing when your smirk draws my snarl.

Proving to me, that you are second to none.

Give me your open palm, I will trace the wrinkles running.

Massaging knuckles a’loose.

Popping like logs a’flame,

the liquid spaces between bones and cartilage.

I am cleaning your hand’s battleground

from being strewn with tension’s carnage.

Serving Specters

Come.

Sit by the fire in the hearth.

I will put my chin on your knee, stare into the ether and let my thoughts run.

Perched upon your feet, keeping your toes warm.

Sitting on the floor.

Closer to the earth.

The storm passes, the rain relents, and the sky above the Sound nearly recovers.

The air outside remains cold.

⊙

Locals say this place is cursed.

I’ve seen enough tragedies in others in my four months here, to believe it.

Heard of even more.

Yet, here shall I establish my residence.

A mid-thirty year old,

amongst the retirees still seeing themselves as inhabitants of Stellar Street.

Mick and Keith working the corner shop.

⊙

The wealthy snow birds hum, at the restaurant where I work, about migrating to the South for the winter.

Winter homes.

“Guess how old I am”: he says.

His wife giggles.

Howl I loathe this game.

But, this pair is old enough to not take anything personally.

78: I guess.

The correct answer is 97.

He proceeds to tell me experiences from both the first and second world wars.

I am captivated.

They do not take their leftovers to go. They turn down the offer of free bread.

°

The less well-to-do appear even more non-corporeal.

No winter homes to which they may abscond.

Disembodied spirits of bodies that no longer exist.

To serve and host at this restaurant requires second sight.

Many of these people long ago became invisible to most.

Are you Irish?: he asks.

No, I’m from the South.

Oh, I was stationed there with the good old boys. They went to bars during their off-time. I went to museums and landmarks. But, I was odd.: he tells me.

He shares stories of being an 18 year old from Montana who ended up in the South during George Wallace days.

I am captivated.

He and his wife take their leftovers home in a box and ask for extra free bread

which they are given.

A nuzzle

Let me nuzzle my cheek, just barely, against the uppermost part of your pectoral muscle while you tell me stories of before I knew you.

Let us, again, rub limbs together like how crickets sing, to keep warm.

Because I can see the pending winds of winter on the watery horizon of the Sound admidst the

clouds of steely grey.

Smoke from some celestial dragon finishing an exhalation

from his degree of inclination.

Pull close in arms and tether me against you.

Listen to the furnace rattle and to the homestead’s ribbing creaks.

Because, when the partially frozen rain begins descending,

we wilt not see but what is immediately in front of us,

So, let it be one to the other, through this season of alaying bare.

Off-the-cuff Choreography

A bath drawn to

to draw your words.

To soak your bones and remind your greyhound mind

to unwind.

Put the pen and paper away. I have nothing to say: he says.

Excellent. Í don’t wish to take dictation, then.

Ballet slippers donned and satin ribbons laced up my calves.

A custom pair. A parting gift from the corps

following a fall that took my left ankle’s ability to regularly dance en pointe.

There is no visible trace of the bone’s weakness, but I sometimes feel it,

still.

An act now saved for special occasions, and certainly not slick floors of bathing rooms.

But, I can still stand on my toes all day,

A white, gauzey skirt, flowing but slitted, and worn, only at home.

Black, satin camisole, containing little but fully covering.

A pinched waist.

There are valid reasons for dressing the part.

He says: Do your barre work in here. Can you extend each leg to the towel rack?

Yes, my extension is good but my turn-out requires me to warm up. Í’ll start with the countertop.

Familiar feeling of tendons pulling. Straining until a’loose.

Initially struggling to stay tight, they go loose like fretted guitar strings after many plucks.

Í arch my back and bend my spine backwards. It releases its tension more easily.

My arms move slowly like a lava flow.

Í warm my muscles.

Í imagine the heat your body feels, in the still hot bath water.

Í envision the expansion of your blood vessels and the increased flow of your bloodstream,

Therewithin.

The pulsing that your body sensates through the process of acclimating.

Í feel it.

It limbers me.

Í feel your eyes.

Í pretend not to but í delight in knowing that you know that í know that í am

under observation.

The awareness of this suddenly envelopes my attention and í slip from my posture,

but í do not fall.

Oops. Giggle.

Tell me, again, your mythos of Svetlana Zakharova and Robert Bolle.

Í love it when you have me repeat myself.

Well, she is from the Balanchine school, where every movement is lavish and ornate, pronounced and, often, painfully slow. Most male dancers get cast as choreographical fillers. They dance in support of a prima or a principal or a soloist, keeping her held in spotlights in impossible postures. This is changing, though. Bolle was the best at this. But, when he dances with Svetlana, she needed no outside support. She would hold her own positions while he knelt and/or took the spotlight. Her tenacity, strength, gave him a chance to both shine and rest. A chance to breathe. You know í found some of my prostrations from her La Bayadère variation.

He says: I know. The way you wrap your arm about your crown to cup your opposite cheek

My eyes have gone wide.

Í am loose now.

You look ready: he says.

Í know the perfect album: í say, flitting away.

From the other room, í drop the diamond tip to spinning vinyl.

Beaming.

Watch this: í say.

As the music flows.

My eyes remain open but í am not seeing.

Í feel as if becoming music in motion.

Í snake, í extend. Pronounce the flare of hips.

Í make strange signs with my fingers.

Í shift in this solo performance for the audience of the one.

His neck bends back and rests on the tub’s edge, eyes narrowing.

He begins speaking words as they come

to his mind.

There is no need to write these.

He says: I like how you begin with the restraint of ballet proper before losing yourself into more, less classical, feral movements.

Í whisper: ballet is a foundation of five simple positions from which infinite variations may be culled; but, dance is second to second and cannot be predicted, only experienced. It is undomesticated, improvised, choreography at heart.

Unrooted.

The silence slaps the sweet smile from my face.

Two dimples disappear and my eyes go wide and watery like reflecting pools.

It was expected, knowing the routine.

Like my cheekbones slipping softly against your inner thighs.

I return of my own volition.

I am into repetition. Can ya tell?

A cassette played and then rewound, to be as the stabilizing soundscape to enhance feeling and gift a smile,

but cared for and never unspooled.

After doing the same action, ten times,

the action becomes anew,

because we extend the potential through practice.

Carrying wood.

Ritualization.

Not new, but still true. Reposted

Like an aged letter.

I am soft today.

Wide-eyed in hope and a hint of previous hurt.

An open vessel never being vacuous.

I embrace it,

whispering in a whimper: hey, let me in.

A Tea Party for your sobering Psychopomp.

Vamp for me, wild thing.

I will howl out the accompaniment to your movements.

The accompaniment as the autumnal ewe fades away,

but before the howling winds of this

fall remove all the leaves from your limbs

And leave You exposed to face the winter

Unrooted.

Dynamic current/s.

Work.

The diabolical breathwork of

inhale

exhale.

Contract and release.

Diaphragm to breast.

Skin pulling tight enough to count ribs, like keys on a piano.

Play them as a xylophone to calm my frenetic feral fury.

⊙

It is sea shanty time at Maple Hollow.

Come to gather ’round, salty sea dog.

Exhibition of the blushing provocateur,

an energetic howling, sweet sea monster wailing for you,

swimming through kelp forests of her own hair.

Hide and seek.

Marco.

Polo?

Demure despite (but, never in spite) appearances.

Let me energize that ennui into

Dynamic current/s.La femme d’argent.

Mantle above hearth.

The sun hits that magic hour in its descent.

Making the black wrought iron scaffolding of the ongoing, neighboring construction appear alive and bioluminescent.

A shiny male hummingbird buzzes about my feeder.

He sounds like how carpenter ants work.

A single strand of spider web, disconnected from

save one of its points of anchorage, bandies about in the breeze like a tethered up sail boat does overnight, with its rigged sails furled tight like sleeping’s closed eyes.

The sun catches the gossamer strand in line segments up to but not including

its full length.

I smell someone has lighted a fire in their hearth for the first time in a long time.

My nostrils taste stale smoke.

Shall I gather the kindling while you carry the firewood?

My chimney flue prepared, opened after a recent clean.

Strike a match to it so I may wrap around, in the fire light,

like a little, infinite möbius

s

t

r

i

p

.

A sound not a bay.

I am the subtle magnetic force trying to kindly shift

your aged space and the immediacy of your moments.

Or, is that you?

Pulls of the polarized enliven me.

Maybe I am your current, optimal conditions,

an ideal, unidyll ether enabling materialization.

I see from the lonely vacuum without feeling alone.

Electric light and natural radiance.

A backlit screen,

The sun striking the pages of written text in a newly opened book.

Lidar and black holes howling in polite algorithmic rhythm.

The Oxford comma not being used within

sentences always running-on.

⊙

A’stood between two pillars of trees

with bark gnarled from time,

coarse like hands that can carry wood and graphite,

my writing flows

forward and backward.

And, simply saying, “hush” can be a come and turn-on to the fretted strings.

⊙

I see success is your proof; and, it

arouses need to draw your reaction.

Your attention.

So when you ask: Do you see?

I respond: I know.

Because I want to hear

You ask me: you know what, exactly?

i know my eyes want to watch your eyes: I reply with sheepishly calculated vulnerability.

⊙

I can see you enter a hypothetical room and

stand still.

Hell knows what I’d be doing, but

I know

I would stop doing it at the sight of your site.

To read you, without words,

your reaction. The response received from your eyes, without smiles.

Feeling as a fool tossing a coin with the Fates.

⊙

I ran with you in dreams last night: I say.

And, I understood the difference between a cagey connoisseur and a common collector: I think.

A coattailer or a partner in crime.

You tell me: your hair is a kudzu trail twisting down a terrace in tresses of winding locks.

⊙

These things are integral, like a well-timed laugh,

yet, they reduce to simple vibrations and shudders.

I live by a body of water

that is a sound oft confused for a bay.

But, my bays sound

like a whispered suggestion:

Come and bathe with me, Archimedes.

Monolith-Fly Golden Eagle

No rights: homage to a song whose lyrics are still hard for me to make out after jamming this track for many years.

There is a certain mood that was made for this song.

It is here, today, on this slippery Sunday morning.

⊙

It reminds me of two words:

Hi-wa-itck: a Mohave tradition concerning lovesickness that is associated with insomnia, anxiety, light depression, and loss of appetite.

Front of center: (archery) the weight of an arrow tip that determines the penetration of the intended target.

⊙

/Lightly as we go.

I got ya hand inside my…

And where it ends nobody knows/

/So tell me what I’m supposed

To do

When all my thoughts get wrapped up in you/

/Was like an engine sucking steam

Just letting it slide/

/Just like your smile is so alive.

A bow and arrow shot you…/

/…coming unglued/

\Ahhhhhh let it go!/

Verba Eclipsata

The ascent of a scent,

warm and humid like southern nights.

A recollection of something never had yet still known,

like the smell of a world existing prior to the industrial revolution.

Encoded in all minds, like a forgotten dream suddenly recalled.

“It’s curious how ‘illicit’ is used more than ‘licit.’ ”

“That’s not what I’ve come to discuss.”

“Are you sure about that?”

The livery stable holds a horse rode hard and put up wet.

From the projection of the rider’s own limbic system,

thereby was a scythe observed

being cleaned

off in a river of cortisol,

and, then, resheathed into the odd, wrappings

made of hide.

The harmony of the discord between a

sympathetic

And

parasympathetic

nervous system that is only given rest through

relentless fight or flight.

The capture and surrender of two individual, respective attentions.

Things contained and separated by encasings of skin.

Verba Eclipsata Intende A Dinspir.

Pearl eats Oyster

The wex of supplication

The hex of self-sacrifice.

An aloe juice applied.

A smoked cigarette.

for supplication

of abasement.

⊙

Simplicity may dissolve into

a unity of psychic diversity.

Four bases produce

endless genotypes producing

infinite phenotypes.

The nature of nurture or lack thereof.

The art of service:

The difference between

I’m happy to help.

&

I’m glad to help.

Private humility

Laughing in the darkness of that which gifts you discomfort.

Where strangers are seldom seen.

⊙

I make circles. Keep up with my eyes.

Let it all be a tactical, tactile trick.

Kind brats of men move my pen.

See and know. Bathe with and clean.

Tepid water tested by toes while the ewer of a

faucet head drips.

⊙

Wake from a lucid dream into sleep paralysis at a touch of skin.

Churlish obstinacy and insubordination.

An affixed clothe-spin stinging like an inability to articulate.

A sheet hanging until until no longer wet.

The silence of the narcissist to the empath.

The empathic, giggling punishment of a narcissist.

A fretted string strung too tightly,

coiled to snap like a cobra.

A mouse that

turns out

to be a mongoose.

The extension of legs when moving from flat footed

to en pointe.

A swan taking flight.

A hunter knowing a swan strays not too far from its pond.

The thrill and repulsion of an irregular pearl who consumes

and swallows the oyster muscle.

.

Parçigal bemoans

Has Comte de Saint-Germain simply imitated Guillaume Postel, who desperately wanted people

desperately wanted people

to believe he was older than he was.

Why had the Maistre gone to Wilhelmsbad to sow dissension

You will change clothes and do as I say. Relent and give in to me.

Through sheer passion and devoted imagination,

I hope to draw you back to me of your volition.
Relent and give in to me.

That low throat voice, that angry sounding breath of desperate need and wanting posturing as powerful loudness.

and wanting posturing as powerful loudness.

So good, sweet thing. How i howl.
desperate need and wanting posturing as powerful loudness.

By my word I will you show your will that I am your mistress and also your mastered.

also your mastered.
I am your mistress and also your mastered.

God|dess to your God|head. I crown you and declare you divine. I show you what I see of your divine effulgence.

I show you what I see of your divine effulgence.

Your head bursts with creation.

My uterus becomes a mystical fire of muse, as well as bemused.
I show you what I see of your divine effulgence.

The Alchemy Feminine: Transmutation of the uterus to womb viz a viz the push of seed in the push for life.

viz a viz the push of seed in the push for life.
viz a viz the push of seed in the push for life.

An empty chalice found, earned, deserving of, and filled through ecstasy of passion coupling with

ecstasy of passion coupling with

romance, attenuates our attunement to become love’s incubator

of the burning flame that smelts away and disposes of impurities.

But without a reason to refine, love can flee and leave the incubator to entomb itself.

entomb itself.
leave the incubator to entomb itself.

A simple supplication to my nape, back, breasts will rekindle me; is taken in as prayer.

is taken in as prayer.

But my Mastery of Ecstasy flows from your oral obeisance,

dearheart. Your enjoyment and desire to

bury your face and lap and eat.

Watch me. Until my eyes narrow,

my smile becomes a pout of lips, my voice goes

deeper and the fry deepens.
will rekindle me; is taken in as prayer.

Let’s un-domesticate before their eyes. You are branded, but I am not.

You are branded, but I am not.

No mark torched my skin and

I usher you to the Maverick underground which

magically exists above ground.

Giggle. I do this for you only, because that is how this gal works:

on a one gent basis (remember punk, it doesn’t have to be you).
You are branded, but I am not.

You ask, “Won’t you ask me my second name? The name you want to call me?”

The name you want to call me?”
The name you want to call me?”

I laugh, “Dummy, that was me that asked you that question in a dream a month ago.”

you that question in a dream a month ago.”
that question in a dream a month ago.”

Your gaze drops as your head lowers.

Bit of a grin gives you away.

Lovely tough guy eh?

Dream of a Watery Cavern

It was a sub terrain keystone cavern of cathedral proportions, carved out from the processes of semi-precious, conductive mineral excavations.

I dreamt I lived underwater, there,

in a little house on the floor of

the Sound,

it was filled with water.

It rained heavy droplets of oxygen,

pattering on the tin roof.

I drop my pen, it slowly floats downwards.

You catch it with your mouth, before it reaches the ground.

Your eyes look up at mine with pride.

I see you shiver.

I silently say: Come and let’s lie down together; you on your back.

I wrap my legs around you, and

slide my thighs and calves against yours,

rubbing limbs like how crickets sing,

until you are warm.

Satisfied sighs bubble from your lips.

You keep shivering well after becoming warm.

Dream of a rude awakening

A pair of legs splayed to show well placed snaps.

“Undo them.”

That’s what he said.

I do.

“You want to feel the rise of my serpent up your spine’s

base.”

I roll over for this rude awakening.

Assertive Ask[d]ance

Your enervated state is the reason why I request your prostration.

I do not require it; but,

I wilt accept it from you.

Until you understand this, I can neither refill nor refine you.

Your acquiescence does not appease me; but rather[,]

(It may prove to please me)

enables you.

Do not give me attitude simply because

your lassitude overcomes you, wild thing.

I know how to respond; but,

do you know how to af-

firm that you need a demon cleaner?

Blustery and Blushing

A crisp breeze whips through us as we walk.

I look to your forearms

in anticipation.

Each breaking out in thousands of little goose pimples.

Reddening the skin.

Your face flushes as your blood vessels respond to the

change in ambient temperature.

It turns you to a blushing man.

Your eyes go childlike and I can imagine

your childhood face, even though I have never seen it.

The one you wore when you were fresh and new.

Before you knew how time flows

and before all that time flowed you.

Back when all you knew was feeling.

Before you had knowledge, before you wanted to have more knowledge, before you needed to prove things.

Before you knew that you know nothing.

⊙

A ray of light projects itself through the grey day’s smokey cloud cover.

It reenlivens your skin tone.

You thaw.

And, I wonder: where were you the very first time

sunlight kissed you and

began stripping away

your skin’s virginity.

⊙

In private, I will observe your bare form.

Looking for tell tale signs distributed and

laying across every inch of you.

I will trace my fingers along and press my lips to each revelation

of how you became what you are.