i dream in...

i dream in percussions. i dream in rosy-gold haze. i dream of the dusk. and the dawn. i dream of the freedom of open spaces. with the wind singing to me. embracing me. warm drafts bearing me up ever higher. i dream of the secrets of forests. and the mysteries of woodlands. of the stories told by rivers and springs. i dream of the laws of the moon. and the teachings of the stars. i dream of feasts with heroes. and orgies with gods. i dream in warm reds and bright golds. and fertile, lush greens. i dream in percussions. and strings. and winds. i dream of colorful vibrations. i dream of flight. and impossible heights. i dream of the magic of words. i dream. quovaqoqoramalenuvamelathataneshissimonerrazizzianameloiane

The Hour of the Wolf.

Ponderous nights have never been ready friends for restless young men. Much like clammy summer days. Ponderous nights have never been ready friends for restless young men. Who dream of great things with restless hearts in the deafening yet pregnant silence amidst the gathering shadows. Of Fortune. And Glory. Of Hearth and Home. Of Faraway Lands. And the Written Word. Ponderous nights have never been ready friends for restless young men. Who dream of great things. While lying awake. In the pregnant silence of countless nights.

Every Maria.

He wondered if she loved him.

Really.

She was so distant. Perpetually
preoccupied.

He drifted away.

She stayed as she was. Mum. And
spare.

But in times when the
silence crashes down on her.
She would strain …

“I love you like I love my garlics,
my onions, my tomatoes, my
herbs, and spices. I love you like I
love the rough yet giving iron
skillet. I love you like I love my
gleaming copper pans. . .”

Ensconced by her stove and oven.
The kitchen she loved so much, now her own jail. And she her
own jailer.

Hoping the scent of her cooking
would call him back …

To dine.
To feast once again.

of beads and shrapnel.

we were a bad match from the start.

you were a monday child. herald of sorrows.
and i. i was born under the sign of the wheelbarrow. i always had to be pushed.
but what THEY never saw.
was how our shadows melted into one under the merciless april sun.
as we stood under the rickety skeletal electric poles.
waiting for the red and blue and green dragonflies to buzz by.

we grew up.
i marched off with the army.
and you were beckoned to a seminary.
your knee- and fingerpads. grew thick with callouses.
going through all those beaded mysteries.
genuflecting for my salvation.
a bead for every bullet i shelled out.

the heavens were busy with angelic mahjong.

all i had to send you were my medals.
and the shrapnel i ripped out of my own flesh. . .
my letters reeked of gunpowder and marsh gas.
though they were bare of any endearments.
we did not really need any. . .

we were a bad match.
yes.
but all be damned.
we are one helluva match.

this war is over.

i am comin' home. . .

and you will give me my absolution.

Cinderella

I worship Vivienne Westwood,
you exclaimed.
Cinderella,
were we but sixteen then?

When you would dress up in front of me.
In your salmon pink fishnets, canary yellow patent mary janes, and lavander shirt dress.
were we but sixteen then?

When you asked me if I think Clint Eastwood or Marlon Brando enjoyed blowjobs immensely.

And if the Queen ever spreads her legs.



You would demand intently of me to brutalize you.

Rape you.

"I want to be your whore".
- You would point out.
- between smoke rings and soda gulps . . .

we were so young then.



Slipping into our glass cage. All fragile and raw.

You treated me like a tampon.

AND I LOVED IT.

24/7.




Cinderella.

You're back.

We're not sixteen anymore.


But we can be.


Tonight. You would pull me back to your red and white calico bed.

Then we would fuck like cats until noon.








For now.

You would paint my nipples gold.

And we would say our prayers
- like the good children that we are . . .

boom!

will be updating this blog soon. hope you guys like the new look.

shit...sigh

how do you nurse a heart? make it unbroken when it never was whole. and is now more broken? how do you give it to someone else, when someone already owns it...and he couldn't care less at that.

desperate are the prayers uttered by one lost. gather my tears... for my hands can no longer catch them. for they are still reaching out for you...