removing them ever so carefully, tenderly,
I’d do anything to keep from being alone, pay any price, be used to the “nth” degree and never say a word. Being used is better than being alone but it stings knowing the object of my affection will hurt me, maim my spirit, and destroy my forward progress. Still, I follow hard after her, giving all to maintain that relationship and avoid the terrors of being alone. What compromises have I willing conceded to? What violations of my self-esteem and personal space have I allowed for unrequited affection? What tortures has my heart been through, my body feeling the wretch of emotions that sets my nerves on fire? Being addicted, not to a substance, but to a world of egocentric affection that I’ve created by taking the object of my affection and embellishing her to a fantastic degree. I should know better, I do know better. The voices of friends and family, concerned that I am “being used”, try to slap me awake. Ignoring their advice, pushing away the voice of truth, I continue to live a world that only I see. Go away you bearers of truth, you wreckers of dreams, this is my world, I will not see it in your light! I take my script and apply it haphazardly, patching up the holes in the dike containing my empty dreams. Eagerly lapping up my lack of self-control and willful delusion, the protagonist in my play continues to feed my world of facades with empty compliments, cool affections, and eyes empty of love. One day I’ll wake up and grab hold of myself, one day I’ll acknowledge this self-imposed hell, one day…but for now, I look at her and imagine how she loves me.
Also published in Broowaha
Pieces. Making up a whole, many parts nested together, each influencing another, producing new parts by virtue of the interaction. I pick out a few, examine them closely and find interesting details. They’re beautiful, when held away from the fray of the many tentacled reach of memories and fantasies. After holding them up to the light, seeing their potential array, I shudder to place them back into the filthy nest of my mind. Pulling out the best pieces, I shake them violently to break them free from the sticky strands of complexity and insanity. It encourages me to see the good in the midst of the shadowy world of loathing self esteem. I go through life in this juggling act, bringing out the best, keeping them out front, trying to not corrupt them or damage them. It’s true that others caused the breaks in my beautiful things, but I cannot put them away, even if it means harm, they’re all that I believe is good in me.
I‘ll follow you there, into the dark
The dark is my lover, I caress it’s shadowy folds.
Come, join me in the midnight blackness
It soothes the brightness of truth
Thick blindness holds us tight
Our fears close but held at bay
Cold, our emotions now irrelevant
I‘ll follow you there, into the dark
Where lie my deepest fantasies
Lay down your fear my sweet woman
Take my misty promises into the wildness
Of the unknown, unfeeling, and unbelievable
Provoking them to relinquish their hidden treasure
as I follow you there, into the dark
Its a long way back from the edge of life. I knew when I followed that path to the outer limits of my experience, my emotions raw and excited with newness of knowledge and feeling, that the price for this wonder is the journey back. It’s beautiful on the way to that edge, my soul being easily amazed by pleasures which offer no sure guidance and seduce me with their passion. This excitement is the elixir of madness offered by my wayward senses to lure me beyond the wise and sure. I have recognized the most painful of these experiences are the ones that offer extreme pleasures that lead me away from safety. There are many secrets out on that cliff, many of those secrets are taught on the journey back from the precipice. Run to the edge with reckless abandon, gather your pleasures of knowledge and lust, and know, a price will be paid. I’ll see you on our way back…
First Published in Opinionsofeye.com
You will never forget me
She beckons one, she caresses you from afar.
You can’t see her, she knows you
You can’t hold her, never in your arms
You know she will fool you, she will give you great pleasure
You know she will hurt you, she will give you great escape
You know she will lie to you, she will give you great fantasy
The throbbing in my shoulder matched the muffled sounds from the headers of the car. Sweet liquid morphine and shots of Jack Daniels had their desired effect, easing my body and mind out the bowels of this craziness. It’s amazing how fast life can change, from dreary and boring to “What the fuck!” in a hot quick second. I noticed things were getting easier, surprises less surprising, and choices made by previous choices. Violence became a common thing, life and death, no longer fragile and precious, but cheap and forgotten. The only lives important were ours. It wasn’t the fight for life, because I had life and it never was this exciting or crazy, but it was the fight for survival. I know survival is life, but there’s something about staring at the wrong end of the gun on a regular basis that ingrained a grit, a hardness that’s comforting and that sedates the complacency experienced by the blue and white collared grunts, performing the same routine, longing after a little dough to buy a house or car, or the beautiful trophy wife. I imagine cavemen had this same excitement, and really, that what this was. Caveman style, fight for survival, kill and maim to push ahead and escape. Some men are born for this lifestyle, and for me? Well I didn’t know, but I knew that guns now felt comfortable, my aim was sure and not shaking, my stride confident with my queen by my side. I guess that even if I didn’t start in this “trade” it seemed that it grew on me. These thoughts eased me into another deep sleep, the lullaby of mufflers at 70 mph, and the comfort of cold steel pressed against my skin and delicious lips, parted slightly with just a little strain visible on her china face. Where this was going, I didn’t care and it seemed my career description was rapidly changing from my old mundane, back breaking job, but the goal was the same, that I might see her and escape from the listless world that was mine, outside my Queen’s castle.
We decided to meet again at a mutual friends house, and soon drowned our past in bottles of liquor, as was our custom. The party gave us enough publicity to dial in our emotions and be civil, at least for a moment. The night went smoothly, and our intoxication soon led to giggling and playing grab-ass for a couple of hours. The self-induced heaven I maintained was an amazing effort on my behalf, emotions in check, brain on hold. Of course, the sexual tension that always surrounded my Angel and I kept me going, “Hell”, I thought, “if nothing else I’m gonna get laid”. That seemed to get me through many nights with her, and, if I sorted them out then, I’d see what really was wrong with us. It’s entirely possible to live in my head, not checking the facts or figures or any reality whatsoever. But so goes this dance and regardless of logic and pain, which never added up to a positive, the door shut and in the darkness, our hands found each other. I breathed her in great gasping breaths, like a drowning man, breaking the surface a moment before unconsciousness. My hands ripped her shirt near off, her nails left tiny blood lines of passions anger. Our bodies moved so smoothly, wet with perspiration, sexual excitement, and hunger. As we satisfied our lusts with our fingers, our mouths, every part of our body became a playground, things that some considered taboo, seemed to possess us. Closing my eyes to the music, swaying with her sounds, wet and sighing sounds of desperation and passion. The light from the new day showed the results of our play. Clothes were everywhere, the mattresses separated and laid crosswise displaying the crumpled sheets and suggestive pillows and silken ties. That’s when I saw it, as she rode on top, driving herself on me with hard strokes of still drunk love, a glint swung from her neck, a glimmer of gold, a spark of diamond dancing just above my face. I’m sure she forgot she was wearing it, a symbol of her betrayal to me, a sign of success for her, his necklace pronouncing a conquest of my Angel. Yanked from passion, I couldn’t stop, I really couldn’t move, hypnotized by her sex, and violated by her betrayal. Oh dear God, my heart is stopping, I can bear no more, my mind drove itself to these newest depths of darkened morose pure and unadulterated pain. She saw it on my face, my tightened jaw, not from an orgasm, but, and she knew it quick, from that necklace. I could barely breathe, my throat dryly gasped out, “Why? Why would you wear that here with me?” But that was my Angel, that is who she is, no thoughts of anyone but her, no understanding of the repercussions of her curiosities. I was the fool. I made this whole thing up in my mind, I created the “us” from my own fantasies. She merely rode the ride, the ups and downs being a thrill of entertainment and nothing more. My reality, merely a fantasy, an old man wrapped in the make up and pretty things of her young world.