Ready for Him

Sexed up like he liked it, like I had learned to feel silken in. Leather boots to the thighs, velvet backless dress hugging on every curve of my full breasts, bondage belt ready for his grasp. Ready to play and not too nicely.

His painted nails scratched diagrams at whatever of my skin flashed exposed. He knew that I dripped freely, no panties to interfere with his fingers. Carefully trailing between the top of the boots and just right at the cusp of my inner thighs, his hands knew exactly just how much pressure I could take….how my tongue curled right outside my lip every time he put just enough in to make me squirm and rain more.

And when his fingers would slide out coated in me, he would slide that hand up along my back, and tickle my neck. I could not look at him directly, for that was a strong part of the game. Shift my gaze, look everywhere but at him, try my best to not squeal or gasp too loudly. Every inch of me throbbed, especially since I knew he was ready to burst….but not here. True, my outfit boasted what was on my mind, while he balanced a more temperate sexiness; our circles had come to expect that.

His control was amazing. His voice and hands and mouth, even his legs knew how to spin me, without creating much notice by others. I though, I had to squeeze tighter (which only shot the orgasms through me harder), had to kick my toes or tap on the table, which could be mistaken for impatient conversation, but oh…..if only they knew……..He was precise at which sweet spot on my neck could make me cum instantly………how he could lean into me as if brushing away a stray hair and whisper “I so want to fuck you,”…

Instead of guiding my hand to his erection, he would angle my thigh atop it….there our friends sat discussing art venues with us, just chatting on as I shyly bowed. What seemed like me leaning against him in the booth was really my dress hiked over my ass, and me achingly balanced against the pants barely containing his stiff cock.

Did they notice the slight tremble as I raised my glass to drink? The way I picked at my food because it was easier to sip than to eat, in between my shallow breathing? Could they tell that when he pulled me closer by grabbing the rings on my belt, he made sure to press the metal as hard as possible against the thin dress material?

It would be a couple of hours before he would bind me and take me every way he could, before curling into a deep slumber from having him thrust into me till we were both left raw and spent.

I would fall asleep covered in his honeydew spills, spooned against his cock for when he parted me in our sleep and we began again……

Pacified Tickling

When I wanted, I could have. I could do and plan or itch and pounce however my veins turned. He put it in my hands – I control it, I feed it. I was ready the day after he and I merged, the timeframe that seemed like a day but I believe actually lasted at least three. It has ultimately become meaningless, the exactitude applied to recording and according how the passages of seconds are spent – what date or which hour was it – was it a Casual Friday or a Fuck Me Monday? Did it impede upon the sacred weekend?

I took up food, four days and nights gorging stuff that was as palatable as the strained crap fed to babies and stuff that lingered on my tongue yet could still never surpass what I truly drooled for. My neck whimpered for companionship – Ezekiel’s neck mewed too, but it needed others – we needed others to pacify the tickling.

Wolf Waiting

The wolves were waiting, panting as I struck the matches and brought their escapes further into the room. They knew I could hold ground with them, that I represented the same dusk that their Mother, my Mother, did. Ready for the hunt tonight – initiation to prove I could go beyond Ezekiel, that this wasn’t lightheaded whimsy. She rose upon the slight invocation, bringing crackle leaved wind leading to whoever I chose – whoever would win the door prize of my dance tonight.

Deciphering the Truth

I am eating as if never before – actually tasting each and every ingredient, down to the teeniest wisp of seasoning. I can feel beyond that – to everything the animal digested before its demise- I can swirl in my mouth the soils and nutrients and toxins that the fruits and vegetables were grown in – the origins of the grains, oils, and sweets in baked items. It is an organic dream – to know the entire history of each participle in the paragraph we are at present ingesting. I know the secret shortcuts taken, the processed factory cut uniformity, and when it is advertised truthfully as the real thing.

To watch the server’s face when I turn away a dish based upon something he or she probably doesn’t even know, something that is then confirmed in private with the deceitful chef is well worth the price – and enough pleasure alone to deny a gracious request of no charge. And when the server is already in the know, yukking it up for another bloated tip, presenting a dish he or she would never touch under any circumstance, grovel, honey, suck that up ‘cause this is one person who wasn’t fooled by the dog eat dog mentality – don’t even bother trying to compete with me.

Eagle Entrees

There is a school of thought that labels some people “ducks” – waddling through life, oblivious to most reasoning, not difficult to manipulate for greedy gain. But the truth is most of the so-called “drivers” aka “eagles” are still pussies, only pussies hiding it better.

They are the bigger prizes, the ones with the stiff backs and all of the answers, shuffling amid technological clutter and textbook suggestions for higher intelligence. Put them on the spot and challenge their skills, and they’ll quake stuttering excuses. They’re good to go when someone is so obviously inferior, but they’re still a carnivore’s entrée – more fat to the muscle. Almost everyone is steak tartare disguised as filet mignon, a garnish away from cubed and diced for devouring.

Torrid

It must be over one hundred degrees in here. We are oil slicks, the floor a swallowing grill. I have coated him in us, my neck weeping once more, happy to find a twin, the still burning candle a single spurting vein. All outside sounds momentarily die – shut out by this suction cup flight I have boarded.

Every breath brought awake by the torrid humidity……his mouth is on my shoulder….surrendering…making the offering equal…..his hands now steadying my waist, gently raising me for my head to extend further onto him. I’m in his mouth, putting him inside, returning what I felt, sharing the ride.

We are inside one another, our souls whipping the flames that had kept us at unrest.

I Will Protect You

He pulls us down to kneeling stances since I am too short. His cock finds a resting place under his pants, pushing against my upper thigh. I drip everywhere, raging…raring to have him…..Ezekiel opens and it is worth the years not knowing he awaited; worth the entire road of shit suffered from this life’s birth.

I could taste hundreds, millions, and never imbibe this. Wouldn’t want it from any other. The Earth before it rolled from its larval shell…..the rivers in the meadowbrook orchid planes, where nightshade blooms fertilized by vein sprays…..the stags trampling obstacle course boundaries, bent on returning to endless oceans……He curled beneath me, and let my body drive….

There are dragons and daggers and ice picks and craters where the Moon napped and sucked on trepidation. A place where the Sun thawed each morning compliant to the pact of dripping blood spots. He is not absent of fear – the banshee roils…the fear of losing me this time round…

It is the only blight in his cunning attack upon the mundane. He does not want to sleep alone in the rain again.

Coming Alive

He stayed in the living room perfecting another masterpiece, while the wolves and their Lady visited upstairs. Such was the presence he had become invisible. And Nevvie did as was her newly adopted custom – she stayed curled up by his materials, as desirous of his constant touch as her mother. The wolves knew what lay next for me – the Goddess offered Her Lover when I strengthened, when I completely comprehended the journey. My hair was drenched in the humidity…my jewellery burned against bare skin…I walked in shiver and prowess, the downstairs lit only by wall sconce pillars.

His hands brought each tint to its Muse, his naked back etched into the dim flames, masking out his stature. You found Her, he whispered, back still to me, still immersed in his latest vision. I tiptoed across the room to press against him, arms reaching around his hips to slither up his chest. I only reached the nape of his neck – I’m ready to eat- he put down the oils and wiped off his hands.

He twisted around, held my arms grasping into him, digging into him, settled hard against my own firm hold. His eyes bore into mine – You’re alive, he mouthed, staring without much blinking. I pressed my tongue against the back of my top teeth, meeting his stare, my fingers slowly absorbing the lines of his throat………

Can I refuse his erection? Can it take second place?

I Want Him............

I have had him inside me - his tongue.....fingers....cock.... He has probed my ears, teased my mouth, made my cunt and ass such receptive entrances, on call all of the time. I know Ezekiel's sweat, the paint crumbs dried along his arms, how his body differs between natural scent and bath infusions. There is only one part I crave that he has yet to present - now that he has had mine, time for fair exchange. Not a single slit along the surface - but he has no reason to deny me.

What I want tonight.......

I want to start with him......

Illumination

She has come - as with every inch I feel him at a single touch, so I do with Her. The blue illumination is present - the glow pierces the black - She has alit and stands within the sacred space I have tried to provide. She is what I felt when I touched him - the absolute epitome of the essences as unmarred by any ridiculous psyche cases.

A poker runs down from my throat to my heart, burning the reality and ridding me of any straying debris. I am hit in a hailstorm, my skin is reshaped, smoothed out...I am no longer a structured human form - an outline maybe, elongating without any restraints. The wolves remain, circling their Mistress, eager for another jaunt, eager to find another leader standing amidst their plays.

She has reached inside me and turned a key - unblocking - unlocking - emitting what should be emitted - instead of closing my neck, She lets it dilate. No shame in blood from any opening. An it harm none - it's not injury when part of the journey, when it's for improvement.

I acquiesce willingly. This thirst is unsolicited.

Tapping Into Me

He trailed his fingers along the crying rip in my throat, then smeared my lips. I tasted myself - the needs, the inhibitions still crawling, the current ecstasy - I tasted that part in me I think is dying, finally going away now that I don't have to be the familiar repressive little girl with him. I tasted what is inherent to the peal of a hunting horn, let the games begin small creatures burrowing as the predators let loose. On my tongue rested a billion consequences of a timeless time insisting on maintaining survival.

I tapped into the real me.

Shifting

The incense brought to mind the open fields leading to the wood mazes that they dominated - the terrains they wrote their songs on - when the Night stayed a faithful lover, when the Moon whispered erotic poetry, when the howling predated all segmented languages.

All four feet played with silver lit landscapes...each downy hair carried the evening's pledge to keep Her alive, each pup striving for Her general accompaniment, to warm Her and exchange trade secrets. They fed in the Dark as the Dark toyed with ways to blend their DNA with the lowly humans, test marketing it with the most exalted of the lot - the shamen.

I wish I could experience that shift to bring me closer to Her. I hate the wall that always springs at the tell-tale breakthrough.

He said I could have whatever I wanted for dinner - no debate, no doubts. Time to feed the hunger, quench the thirst...time to soothe my spirit. Tonight I could taste the emotions as they seeped forth in their true manners, returning to pure states of matter, purified from the mold that had contaminated their original intentions.

Muddled versions, he informed, always so, when beset by the dregs people chose to choke on. Caught at the precise second of escape, one could partake in a drug unknown to most, a high unlike any poor chemical substitute. Break through one trap to have the strength and knowledge to raze all others - that was the bonus lesson.

While waiting, I sat in the dark close to the bed, awaiting Her answer - was this enough? I could feel the wolves in the room with me, their fuzzy sinewy bodies enveloping my lap....breasts.....feet.....My neck ached, a wetness begging for attention. I felt their tongues licking at it, stimulating the hot well - adding their thoughts to mine. I smelled their own hunger- the itch from the Night sky represented so well in their silken movements.

She was stirring. I smelled the meat on their teeth - bits still dissolving - particles releasing the mental trips that had bound them to each person. The incense died out. The flames lowered. She was spinning within the wolf pack. They were bringing Her forth.

Sexy Colors

Squeezing someone's jugular isn't fun; the skin flips into blue shades. I never cared much for that color - purple, definitely. Red, sure. But blue doesn't do it for me. Especially when it swims into yellows and greens and other noxious hues.

Veins are sexy though.

Trickling...

She wanted me complete. She wanted me. Light the candles so I could see fine. Burn some incense to keep me relaxed, no problem. But it stops there - skyclad in a space otherwise uncluttered.

Here I am - naked in the lupine journey smoke hypnotized by the four flames.........

Just excuse my neck - it hasn't stopped trickling in hours.

Need to Shed Fears

Nevvie had ground turkey - I caved and tasted some-oh how horribly bland it was! Sprinkled salt on it, and it tasted like fluff rolled in dry mouth spice. It literally was dead meat. Ezekiel had asked me to choose dinner, if I felt up to it...and I froze. How to admit that what I really crave after this fast or whatever the hell it is is to dive into peoples' souls?

The lack of food must be catching up to me - fucking with my brain - maybe it somehow kickstarted my clairvoyance, how I could read everything, about where he was, but now it had taken a turn...I wanted to tell him - he already knew so much, much more than others never had the privilege, or at least not so quickly.

He will understand. We would chuckle and shake our heads and fall into bed before again questioning what to eat. Fuck - I can't fuck this up.

I gave the turkey one more snatch, rolled into spices and cheese, hoping to quell my nerves and talk to him. Still tasted empty. He walked behind me and took the container from my hands. Caught in the putrid act....ssssssssshhhhhh, he cooed, kissing my forehead, caressing my cheeks....lips.....nuzzling my hair and shoulders......gently pressing on the point on my neck where he had first let the red flow. I saw the snow again, spinning into crimson before it sprayed the ground......

In his arms I saw all that was and all that is and all that could be, that he could show and teach me. He knew the raw turkey was wrong because it had already lost its essence. The blood it soaked in was drivel; watered down juice. It no longer represented anything worthwhile, any semblance of life ebbing into the death circle and somersaulting for rebirth. It was waste, sewer sludge, an inferior imitation. No wonder the meat lacked any natural flavor - it had lain in refrigerated packaging for far too long.

He knew, as with everything else.....I should have known, should have believed, there was never a need to hide anything. The fire in his fingers could not have re-assured any greater, now drawing down my back.....my legs......making me fall and open.......

I needed to put flesh to the abstract. I needed to comprehend these puzzles. I needed to shed my fears.

I Wanted......

When he kissed me upon coming back from the market, my mind flashed with shadow smells of other people - long blonde hair, roasted soy nuts; punk hairdo, cart stand hog dog with sauerkraut and chili; there was henna, balding, streaked, tall, stocky, bulimic, medicated...... chicken pizza and carrot juice and diet soda with lemon and gummi bears and mochas with whipped cream and onion bagel with a smear of vegetable cream cheese - I could taste all of it as it flashed- sparkling water, winterfresh gum, citrus mouthwash, swirls of toothpaste, early day alcohol, peanut butter power bars, menthol cigarettes....

I smelled the acetone from newly painted nails; perfumed body splashes; fruity shampoos and conditioners; facial scrubs, shaving creams, deodorants, and everything else put into daily morning rituals. When I closed my eyes to snuggle into him I knew sadness, lust, giddy romance, jealousy, revenge, excitement, humdrum contentment, impatience, uncertainty, fear, boredom, snippets of what other customers must have felt as they shopped.

I refocused on the aromas at home and at that moment finally felt hungry - the first tinge in almost a full week. I wanted to actually bite into all of the foods and drinks I had just experienced. I also wanted to drown deeper into the emotions.........

Clean

The guys hanging from the bars have toes coated with blood - their blood possibly, dripping from various holes in their arms and thighs. The snakes rise and swallow - I feed them ipecac afterwards so they can return to the marshes and swampholes clean.

Most People are Nothing

Thought for the day: most people are nothing.

They create elaborate ruses merely to give themselves empty meaning to a shell occupied by a soul apparently inflated out of some cosmic ass. Bulk shopping supercenters support the evidence. For every one genuine essence eking out an admirable position, there must be at least ten sweatpants and appliqued sweatshirt phlegm with limbs believing in a gut sagging right to belittle a good thing.

I wish the city would wrap itself in a concrete wall admissible by invitation only - barring that, there should be an exam required for entrance - it's funny what we put foreigners through to bless them with residency, but what's worse - a lack of fluency in English or a proud of the good ole USA red white and blue till I die baby yeehaw who can't spell, write, speak, or much less think better than a third grader (and offending youngsters, with that categorization)?

That's my complaint - that even here such sorry excuses for orgasms can touch the sidewalks. I know that the God and Goddess cannot reign alone, that there must be co-committee members for they would not-could not-in fair conscience allow sex to produce these cretins. And it makes sense too - since the miscreants don't ever possess enough functioning rationality to see beyond a life where priests beat Gacy's batting average with underage penises, women are bebop punching bag slot machines, and scrapple and Mad Dog and anything processed, rubberized, and dropped into chemical plant heaven is a meal fit for a king.

Would love to stick those corn dog sticks up through their pork by-product internals.

What She Wants

Sitting in a circle drawn in the usual manner, only now in our our (my) new living room. There is that edge I teeter on, the edge I cannot fall over. It is like being on the verge of coming, then suddenly losing the wave. I thought for sure especially with not eating for a few days that my mind would easily let go and enter the space where She and Her Sisters dance, where the Faeries tumble and the Lovers commence.

The energy is there - there is a current that permeates - the familiar assembly of Elements called forth - the air remains so...the area charging yet no tangible grasp...not enough live wire. Something that actually makes sense to me, and as is my signature, I muck it up.

This does not bode well. I did not expect Ezekiel to be an instant cure, but did take on confidence in bringing his energy into the mix, letting it apply to the other lacking pieces of me. I don't need proof of Her existence - from a young age, I just knew- it just bothers me that She insists on being around me and bringing Her world- the real world - to my senses and yet never entirely.
There is something still missing, something that must be done to further prove my devotion. I know they are trappings-mindset cues- the athame and cauldron and whatnot - maybe it is time to let go at last and remove the symbols- maybe She simply wants to see me bare.

Subsistence

I can't quite get back a hearty appetite for food....not sick from that platter, but my attentions just keep swerving elsewhere....

Ezekiel drinks with me, nibbles a little on fruit as he nibbles on me.....his prowess in all artistries is amazing - a mural of creating and screwing and finishing and again and again and again amidst traffic bleeps and apartment clatterings................

Even breaking for baths in tea spiced bubbles, he comes - he comes with me.....in me.......all over me.......maybe that's just it - I don't need food as much because my body is feeding off all it needs from what he can do to me......and how he does it.......

How he sculpts me in the ways the both of us itch for..............

Wavering Food

Stopped by the office to pick up the check personnel seems incapable of mailing. Ha! It's dated for today-so much for writing it when the piece was published and "just forgetting to include it." One of the assistants - the snooty one who thinks wiggling her fat ass in a tight mini skirt will bump her into executive editor one day drops her falafel platter into the garbage as she runs to make another pot of coffee.

The tin foil carryout looks enticing - I smell the food above the vanilla scented trash bag - it's greater than the cigarette tinged clothes, the bowls of fresh mints, and the clashing perfumes and colognes weighing down upon the room. Quickly I grabbed the container and slip it into my tote...as soon as I exit the building I tear into it, no need for utensils. It was one of the best meals I have ever had when by myself.

I can't think of food since then. And he hasn't asked me to eat.

Pleasing the Snakes

I dreamt last night that every guy before him who ever dicked me-literally or figuratively-was suspended from a frozen stand of monkey bars, their feet centimeters from thirsty snakes. Each time a hand began to slip from a bar, a serpent would eagerly flick its tongue and flex its structure to prepare for the bulging meal. Every one of these assholes pleaded their case, flashed a come-on, and reminded me of their affection.

I hated to see the snakes go hungry, but letting these idiots hang was far more enjoyable and torturing than the long fangs slicing through. I also didn't feel the snakes deserved such toxins in their digestive tract.

Reality

I have given notice to my landlord- actually I already collected everything, then left a note in the mailbox. In lieu of the rent that was due last week, my furniture should suffice. I left the place in pretty good condition, and what truly makes this wonderfall all the better is that it wasn't my suggestion - it was Ezekiel's. He doesn't want me far...and it's near impossible to be that apart from him.

I'm thinking about telling my editor to fuck off, finally concentrate on what I really want. So pristine the snow, so appropriate how I stained it. For the first time in ages I marked something and proved I am not invisible. I am now convinced that it is time to shut out all of the bullshit that drives me crazy, makes me wince at having to engage in dribble with the morons that make up most of the world.

I want to suffocate their God for my bleeding heart- I can't stomach the pathetic imagery, the excuses they crawl under to justify violence. The followers just traipse through everyone else's meadows and crush and squeeze out what gets most of us through the stupid day. How about someone finally squeeze out their hook line?

How many wake each day and are forced to go through a checklist of what can and cannot be done/said/worn/thought, where to set the self-censoring traps for whatever the act will be? And there they swagger with their crusted yellow drooping effigy, their ragdoll pity symbols and their spread of fictional crack recipes for a life lived accordingly. The world's greatest contribution to shit and best damn fucking manipulation to commit heresy with license...squashing the realists who just want to whip their pathetic costumes off and find amusement in their begging.

Bring Back the Night

Have you noticed how there's too much damned perkiness falsifying daily interactions? Too much room for interruptions, for no one contacts you once twilight drops down unless by permission. That right there is the problem - everyone assuming carte blanche because the Sun is visible. Once upon a time when everything still glistened with embryonic fluid, the Night stayed longer. But people became too uncomfortable with what She inspired and prayed for more light. Eventually they got their wish - and people like me were stung with acid.

What is the Return?

The Laws are clear and succinct: harm nothing and no one lest it be self-defense. There is darkness, there is golden opposite, there are bones for all sparkling jewels yet no pain nor injury. The energy exerted returns threefold, so would that be worth the chance? Would the glee involved return times three?

Moon Tides

The New Moon carries more power than the Full. It is the catwalk of passages, a stillness of planes when the tiniest crumb can matriculate, when a sneeze brings about reconstruction. The parallel and the perpendicular catherize the tide. A halt in aorta pumping lets the Moon decide, and any direction is possible. Whereas the Full will rumble and affect change, the Dark of Luna will hiss warning but wait to strike when the other Faces tweeter.

Coated in Ecstasy...

The snow continued for three days straight, creating the simple shrug to stay inside. We had enough food and necessities, although the prime sustenance was us and enough wine, ice cream, and paint to placate. I had sense to bring Nevvie over when the forecast went into severe warning- and she fell under the spell instantly. Her purring in check, I dove into exile decadently...

He dabbed my skin, every inch of it in oils and tempuras, and wrapped parchments around me- sculpted my curves onto him and slid into ecstasy brought upon by our fires...I became the primal Goddess traced in twining vines and exploding stars, venting seas and tunneled grounds. I turned into the spectrum, splashing the kitchen counters with slick squeezed through my palms.

He held me upside down to let my feet poke at the ceiling, then hung me from leather straps across the descending hooks as we fucked forever. The blood from my neck mingled with the paint, churning into one river dripping down both of our chests, birthing a hue unreplicated.

I heard people slushing through the streets, scooping up snow balls for carrot nosed political farces and calculated target practices. I heard laughter and squeals and grumbling, murmured CDs and TVs.

But when he licked the coating then licked my tongue and we swallowed the broken veins...when the cum found its way upwards to spill onto our lips, the world outside tore from my fingers.

Truth

Ezekiel's place is the portal for magick. It is where the circles mature to, succumbing to the trappings. Imagine living full time in an arena throbbing with icy heat and humid cold, one where the air dances off of pheromones and when your bare feet walk along the floor, your toes touch slipstream mantles. The walls undulate beneath the forest painted veneers, the mirrors throw the hauntings back to your visage. When the building door to his domain opens, you enter the perfectly drawn down capsule.

When you step back into the building corridors, the technicolor fizzles to radio static. His private world mimics his hands and his hands illustrate truth.

Standing Still

I can't pay attention to what I write for work - I do it in a cloud awaiting him...I send it in, hope there are no questions to follow up on; how quickly what I write slips away from memory. Personal correspondence builds, but who cares....Nevvie is the only other one to have my complete attention.

My apartment is amidst clouds - the grocery store stands in fog, people filling the streets are holograms, nothing else seems to breathe when his aura is near. Just moving pictures rewinding and forwarding...

Ezekiel

Other lovers have bitten me - nipped all of the pleasure zones, acted upon the windswept fetish escapade. Ezekiel goes right for the neck and hits the exact spot that defies all orgasmic rides. I am gone within seconds, floating into the subspace and inhaling what it must be to be alive. He never misses, never becomes the man still acting out the role of an awkward teenager stealing cramped opportunities under parental eyes.

There were those who caught me as a trophy, who wanted a dirty alleycat to justify their manhood. There were the ones who flirted with my habits and took it as a challenge, perhaps to match me, play their lore against mine. And of course there were boys turned on by razor blades, repulsed by handcuffs, and swimming with whatever manners could try to decode me, instead of just enjoying the trip while it lasted.

I don't have any such head games and mental tumbles with him - no fancy drinks to lure a naive girl into staying; no Necronomicon musings to strip off the clothing; no role playing written by horny boys trifling with what seemed taboo.

I'm caught in this rush where we blur into everything - every trick is done minus the stop cue actions of how and when and what and where - no script rehearsals or anxious performance ratings.

He does and I do. Brazenly.

Gel

There are different shadows in his home - calmer ones, more seductive, more charming. I feel them flitting by when he and I sleep, lulling me in his candlelit chamber - they feel like him, the same drawn breath - the flickering touch - when I lay against him, my body melts...I taste the current that delineates his being.

My eyelids dissolve into gleaming probes, it feels as if I am able to at last see what the Night gets off bringing. The way a cat contorts, I do in his hands...

I am gel.

Reflecting Conundrums

Am I some reflection of Her as it is suggested and taught? Am I an embodiment? Knife bearing, sword waving, torch carrying, arrow aiming, arms open, runner and hunter, mother and avenger, daughter and tamer, a face for every emotion, a body for every need, an essence for every tapped and untapped jagged fragment. Bleeding veins without any joke of sin, that of a foreign body in a runway open to primal matter. If She is duality, if She openly acknowledges that there must be X for Y and quadratic equations only seek to further our education, then they are self-made conundrums to justify our base urges.

So much conspires to reject Her, the rites become harder to accommodate for that passage, to weed out the wanna-bes and lead the rightful heirs to the netherlands. To let them hear the forestland once again in all its glory.

Resting Aglitter

Of course Pan does not skip alone. She is there, aglow and aglitter, more aware than He of what Her presence does. She does not deny that spontaneous fires burn to catch Her blessing for another fruitful turning, that many a prediction falls before Her grace. She holds the scissors, knowing when to snip and when to fortify...She holds the controls in the slip of Her being...that which calls Her children forth...

But because She is She, the scheme was rewritten that female equals downfall, despair, and death. Not Death the wooing lover, but Death the Grim scythe bearing ender to fun.

And so She rests in transit for the few and far between students stumbling upon Her gifts.

Hear the Howling...

The pain is the right temperature, exacted as I craved it-the delicate balance between tearing and climatic release. He knows where and when and how without any hint. We don't speak - we dig and grip, we become the Night Spirit...I feel this quake, this overwhelming need...he is the only one to ever touch me this high-to know me without the waste perpetrated by fancy dinners and movies and checklists of like minded pursuits. Forty-eight hours and I hardly know anything about his life save that he already has me deciphered and it is fucking about time that I open myself to abandon. The police find drunks and hobos and runaways and junkies in the parks. They see miscreants, but I hear howling.

He looks different when the Moon lets the Sun take over. Not as pale, not as wild, yet the animal instinct is still there, and not entirely by cosmetic intervention. He is the incarnate hunter, the king snake...He can use me, take me and have me. I will not deny. I must stop myself from screwing this up for here is someone who knows.

He has fed upon the rain and knows I need it too.

Once There Were Wolves

There used to be wolves in the city. They ran alongside the Indian tribes who revered them and taught them Nature's magicks. Back in the time when vehicles did not pollute and kill, when the raw wisdom of these magnificent creatures meant something.

Did I have to follow the ensuing political wars and invasions? Did I have to sleep for another turn of the Wheel? Why was I not spared for the carousel? Why couldn't I be a part of the band from eternal beginning to impossible finality?

I hear them howl, hear their plaintive songs in tune with the sage brushed drum beats....as they called Eagle and Fox, Willow Tree and Spring Lake, I called Hecate and Pan, and everyone communed harmoniously...The glory before the bigwigs...to bottle that for the salt sprinkling - that is all part of deciphering the passwords. What's left of the parks still don't convey what I once walked upon, what zillions of returned souls may not even remain cognizant as being their homeland.

Does he know the wolves? The woods that enticed and entranced and proved to be an energy far beyond mundane weaknesses? Does he know how it feels to have once run unfettered, to burn for the burn that signified a life controlled by nothing, a detour into what this planet truly represented?

Promising...

Bottle of wine left in front of my door.

Dark purple thorned rose wrapped around it.

I think the boots will be perfect tonight.

The Return Invite

If you keep your phone turned off then not receiving a call seems less painful...but there it was, a selection of classical music playing on the message, then his voice asking to meet me later at a tucked away cafe.

Should I wear a dress? Jeans? Will we just stay there or return to one of our place's? Screw it, I'll do it sexy and if he for some reason rejects it, at least I won't have to fret over being drab. I will go expecting pastry and coffee, despite his voice, despite my ache to feel him inside again. Just to see him in the outer domains again...

Nail polish refreshed, thigh high boots - ok, maybe I'm now pushing obvious - but they do shape my legs nicely. He's already seen the inner tissue beneath the wrap so who cares...

Dreamless

The spirits didn't follow me last night- they didn't taunt, not so much a murmur. comforting blackness, starless night, massaging my tumbled mind... an ocean ride minus the floating devices. Nothing but my body quivering into the gelatin waves...feeling his touch constantly on me...It rained again this morning, the perfect secondary shade penetrating his apartment walls. Clouding his shadow, as he brought me a latte and a bagel and himself.

I think it could have gone on all day like this but I left. That disgusting trepidation did find a way to cut in and cut the party short, as if self-preservation could account for something at this point. So I took the trip but couldn't let it go indefinitely? Maybe if he doesn't call by a certain time (five hours? Ten? A couple of days?) I'll call him - no, I'll just show up, I'll drum up that bravado for another round and shut up about convention.

It's only been two hours. No surprise. I fucked up once again. What kind of person screws this up?

Now I Watch the Clock...

Reality is such a loaded word - seven letters substituting for nothing most of the time - if not disappointment, then disillusion, hypocrisy, and a loud harsh blow to the fluff parents insist on slapping into you.

The reality of the last twelve, fifteen hours is that I caved to an amazing presence, an overt proposition, finally said fuck it to my pathetic blur in life and went home with a stranger. A stranger that fit my half-assed play exactly. I walked into his domain oblivious to even if he was some psycho present day Mr. Goodbar (is that why that candy has big chunks of nuts?) and had the ultimate fucking night. He had the look, the strut, the fire...What he did I still don't entirely comprehend-it was as if my mind underwent an effervescent whirlpool, bombarded with everything to make me fall into his arms, let him lead me away to whatever awaited.

He had me-right there-I instantly went places mentally that I could only hope to one day reach through the pathways. What millions practice at, revisit time and time and time again to infect their souls with, what we chart mood tides and Moon rhymes for...he brought me there before I even followed him outside...

I didn't see his eyes at their fullest until we had clawed into bed, but they contained it. They held everything - the keys, the locks, the deconstruction. I got lost in his energy and in his habitat at that initial chivalrous gesture and for once, did not care what happened after...only that he did whatever he fed upon me for.

Can You Feel it in the Air?

When you want badly enough, so urgently that it becomes increasingly difficult to experience another day unfulfilled, eventually that ball of energy will explode.

It has to release before the pressure feeds upon itself.

When thoughts coalesce into wiry threads slitting through cuticle matter, entangling upon layers already laid, there is bound to be eruption.

Pan

When Pan burst from the glen, there was momentary silence. The Forest Keeper spritzed about, somersaulting as the center attraction. He bore no reservation-how could he-with Dionysus and Bacchus in the family as equally eager to strut and garner more willing admirers. Each note in the reed pipe delicately tended to, interpreted as it was played, individually affecting each spirit, addressing each particular yen to make everyone feel loved. All of the inhabitants felt His connection, His playful mood- cavort and carouse and you have my attention.

Come watch me frolic and be inspired to join.

It Once Rained Upon Me

I lived in the rain. ages ago, I ran naked in it...It never relented, and neither did I. It pounded into my skin, whipped into my hair, and stung my face. My nipples always hardened as the drops smacked down...I slept in caverns embraced and caressed by wolves, their downy fur cinched around me till dream land pulled away for another foray into the storm. Passages never weighed much - no need when the lands spewed alive, and conceptualized eclipses held no meaning...

I know he was with me too. Who he is now, what he is, no clues remain as to his appearance, essence, or mannerisms, but I know he was there. I know I did not drink in the rain alone, did not canvas and journey the landscape unaccompanied. The Earth and I shared blood...shed blood...we fed off of each other in a time unconstrained. There was snow that tickled sleet and hail that taught and tested resilience.

Never sun though. Warmth in a light that defined black, washed in a milk bath cream surfacing just enough to destabilize pitch totality. It was the time when everything had a pulse for the taking, eager to threaten and tempt and eliminate and capture, a jumble of pro-active intensity.

I knew then that I was happy. Fulfilled. Confident and insatiable in the bareness of the world. We fucked in the mud and gnawed on our meals atop stones uncarved by human branding.

Venture Once More

My dresses hang uninspired by the bones that I think can pathetically prove me sexy. I am the poor bridesmaid, the confidante men reveal their uninhibited cocks to for when they want to get to the centerspreads. Mind as well go out tonight- Winter Moon is cracking smiles. If I never come home, no one would really notice - maybe the guy I buy my herbal smoothie from once a week - well the bill collectors and the grouchy editors, although then the editors wouldn't have to part with the checks I probably claim too much for.

Actually my darling NicNeven, sweet Nevvie, would weep my absence, for else would there be for her to scooch up into and purr away her daily philosophies? Nevvie would have to find a way out of the apartment, then hunt for food...Poor girl would remain stuck, rely on an occasional roach, and then...And no one could ever understand and honor her like I do, cherish her stature and respect her magick.

In her ancestors' time, how would I have fared? When rule lay at the queen's fingers and courtesans flaunted about, would my bed sleep one?

And I Will Bleed...

I have come to realize that I need to change. Something is coming, I don't know what, but something needs to step in and make me feel. I draw the circles, I call the Elementals, I invoke and evoke, I throw the die. I lay in child pose to make it come - grab me by the wrists and shake me, prove that something does exist within me, that my soul does indeed function. I need to know that I am not merely a devoid shell, not just brain matter connected to a pumping heart silk-lined wrapped in this pallid skin. There is more than two feet shuffling because the wired network upstairs says so, right?

I want to know that I am alive.

The very first time I walked these streets, I knew I was home. There was piss in the air, grimy, dirty, dank odors, and smog, but my nose surpassed all of that. The only thing that infected my senses was the totality-the madness and the settlement-the sexy and the squirming lechery-the hustle bustle main streets and the dark corner back alleys. Ah, there was an Elysium Field in the mundane plane to cavort in! A misfit could blend in, only now the new trick was to fall into another costume. Even though plastic Barbies thankfully did not hold complete reign, talking with a fanged smile sold pretty well, but not enough.

I embrace the addiction.

The itch has spread from the outer surfaces - pretty boys, suits, artist junkies and flunky poets - the elusive dream every good little girl whimpers to placate their self esteem with. I might have an upper edge with having a psyche already so fucking scarred. I just need to find which game I belong to.

I am neatly filed, accurately and pathologically described and transcribed. I represent the challenges and the pacifications that an identity encounters when against better intentions, it becomes jello. Preserving even a fraction of my insanity has become priority.

And I will bleed, bleed till time actually suffocates under the crumbling Moon. I will inhale the dust She descends in and absorb it within every orifice. Make me whole again as the numbness attacks my diseased essence.... I will drop to my knees, your sugar coated sycophant....rain down upon me, dare you grace my repulsion, my reviled facade with the tartness coursing through your labels...the venom you taunt me with. Loom over my tongue, threatening to lock away if I so much whisper that uncertainty, that undeniably intoxicating hanger...Stick me. Hurt me. Cut deep deep deep deep deeper-there is no markable depth. Darling weaponry for free disposal. This is the only time I will beg. To kill pleasure is to kill me. Isn't that what the snake wants? To ride where it slithers? Where it tricks its cosmic Chaos?

Nightfall...

The storm has passed into reflective darkness. Vibrating with one inhalation, the barest nose dive into the soliciting sky permeates into what breeds below the soil. Throughout space continuums, the shadows who love to tease me continue with their come-ons. For them I leave the windows open, for it's a two way dalliance - they don't bitch as much as the ghosts.

Afternoon...

When all becomes too much to once again revisit how painfully broken I am, I relish my humble retreat. This is my haven, the one place that does not reject, does not scoff and critique. I bear all control here. The air pulsates in tempo.

Morning...

The city is astonishing in the rain - gray tones undulating as they ward off threatening pastels. When the lightening penetrates the darkened sky, the sky that should have cast dawn upon the expectant clocks, you know that you are living in a world unto itself, a die cast model birthed by star burst laughter. Blood, spill at the first peach grove to preserve that orgy - welcome thus to every soul seeking nomad and their vein splitting mentor.

Alone...

Floating on that island-that oasis of nothingness killing me slower and sweeter- every day passing into another week, another month, another torturous year. My surroundings are just what society likes : a dysfunctional castoff becoming a cog in the great mechanical wheel. Everyone is doing it - pretty girl scarring herself for what? Who wants it? That way? Feel pain to find semblance of pleasure? Why be multi-linguistic when homogeneity is so damn attractive?

I don't think it is possible for me to feel genuine human experiences. I have made this rat maze a stage, and the danse macabre in the broken glass slippers are too well crafted to waste upon the indignant. Come walk with me through the sheet rock and I will always find the bramble to cut your feet with.

Channeling

It was flight. It was freedom - bleeding for everyone and letting the life flow. Did you ever see the Moon cry its pallor upon the city when desperation led to re-stitching? I hold the scalpel. I hold the sutures. My hands know what it would be like to use that power and set it free, to see the Night run and laugh. Yet I also know the fear in surrendering when the whispers come to bait, just how gleeful they are to scratch the reality and disappoint once more.

Can't sleep. Can't focus on the lollipop stutter I need to suck on to let the ghosts reprieve me. They don't like to relax for they're too hyped on the mess I run through each attempted slumber. The very second eyelashes flit upon my eyes, they crawl beside me - can't allow me much quiet- my toes feel the prickly slivers first. The itching eventually becomes managed breathing as the evenings come a' calling. I cannot have what I want. I cannot rise above and present someone something of substantial worth.

I still dream though. Most would equate dreams with actual sleep, for how can there be one without the other? I am down deep at the furthest level, far beyond REM....my brain just shoots me right into that neverland. And as I smash right into the pits many would force themselves awake from clawing for breath, I simply fall into the hands. I want it, want the suppressed orgasm dying for release to come round my throat and follow me back into the waking. I beg to send its coiled energy into the common arenas and knock off the oblivious.

What do these words arouse in you?

insipid
tangy
pulp
fragrant
musk
citrus
floral
woodsy
deep
full bodied
light
hearty
flat
bubbly
thin
heady
bitter
sweet
salty
sugary
berry
caffeinated
subtle
subdued
strong
weak
hearty
spicy
hot
boiling
simmering
watery
roasted
medium
inebriated
narcotic
sour
peppery
airy
smooth
savory
overpowering
rich
minty
dark
red
maroon
burgundy
wine
strawberry
crayon red
candy apple
pink
purple
black
ebony
onyx
grape
raspberry
cherry
bordeaux
fire engine
flame
poppy
chili pepper
paprika
ruby
garnet
rose
brown
cranberry
tomato
plum
auburn
beet
koolaid
fruit punch
coppery
pungent
carmine
vermillion