Disease

“I swear, gentlemen, that to be too conscious is an illness – a real thorough-going illness.” ― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground 
“Despair filled his skull even more tightly than his own brain. All around him cars filled with normal people perfectly unaware of the disease turning Perry’s body inside out. Fucking normal people.” ― Scott Sigler, Infected   

He folded his arms, tightly, like a knot by a five-year-old, and scratching an unconscious itch, wondered at the bloody drop rolling down his aging skin. Wiping it away, he couldn’t help but taste the irony of death. The tics and eccentric behaviors that manifested since the incident made him an odd sort. It wasn’t his fault, he was told about the consequences of playing with the dark. The dark, always forbidding, forever in tales of lore and fables of heroes and damsels, wasn’t he warned? He wanted to see what was hidden, what moved and was caught out of the corner of his eye, begging an explanation. The blackness held an allure, pushing him into a sort of night that comes on those depressed and abused, and holds them, protecting and discouraging at the same time. On that night, he witnessed what others only pretended to know. 
Praying to the powers that kept life and death apart, he fell forward into the darkness, wholly accepting whatever lived there. As he strained to see, he knew that his senses were his friends, and not the eyes that betrayed him. The shadows boiled and rolled, threatening, yet, comforting. Things calling him, bringing whispers and tickles on the back of his neck. The holy house stood confident at the beginning, though the shadows within betrayed that camouflage. Some shadows were darker than others, malevolent and unforgiving. These fear provoking shades are the ones he desired, the dangerous, the despised, and angry forgotten ones, forgotten by fear and ignorance, chased away, but only in their minds, they drew his curiosity. As one gathered itself from the rolling chaos, it writhed up from the depths and called his name, not his given name, but a name he never knew, a name that reminded him of fairy tales and legends. This began his love affair with the dark and conceiving a hatred for the cursed disease called life. Others longed to live, but he, only to die. Life offered no solace, no hope, but the great emptiness of death, there a lover waited that never left and forever hissed the affection that only cold embraces can show.

Sheets

“The cool kindliness of sheets, that soon smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss of blankets.” – Rupert Brooke

nicholaspadula
We succumb to the softly falling sheets, gently settling, as a billow of laughter touches our skin lightly at first, then, holding us in cool delight. Little is known of the heat born as the neatly lying cotton cage begins to twist and flip while we twirl beneath it. We give birth in our playful gathering to memories, touches that last and excite through the night, the dawn, and the new day and days. There is where our happiness finds a purchase, in wrinkled sheets lying on the bed’s corner, falling on the floor, leaving us to cover our nakedness with a dozen pillows that allow our satiated skin, still wet with the practice of secret pleasure, to peek out in childish delight. 

Also published in Broowaha

"Why?" – Questions are answered tomorrow

“Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language.”

 

 
sensosketch

When the storm rages on the oceans way, 

“Why?” is not a question for the gales stay.

When the earth trembles and shakes us deep, 
“Why?” is not a question we should keep.

When the starry skies shed their bright lights, 
“Why?” is not a question for that dark night.

Reap the strong currents of dire sorrow,
 “Why?” is answered only by tomorrow…

06222012

Nightfall – Grip of the illicit

“I was more addicted to self destruction then to the drugs themselves … 
something very romantic about it” – Gerard Way

“Drugs are a bet with your mind.” – Jim Morrison

   

indiscreet-girl

Your legs are splayed in graphic way

Wanting to leave this world, come and play
Scoring your hits under the dark world
Flying inhibition burned in pink pearl
Reaching for your body magnificent
I’m held at bay by your habit’s descent
Changing fondled object of desire
Picking at your curves, soft skin on fire
Tears are my lover as you fade from sight
Pleasure was ours until you hid in your night

Nightfall – Grip of the illicit

“I was more addicted to self destruction then to the drugs themselves … 
something very romantic about it” – Gerard Way

“Drugs are a bet with your mind.” – Jim Morrison

   

indiscreet-girl

Your legs are splayed in graphic way

Wanting to leave this world, come and play
Scoring your hits under the dark world
Flying inhibition burned in pink pearl
Reaching for your body magnificent
I’m held at bay by your habit’s descent
Changing fondled object of desire
Picking at your curves, soft skin on fire
Tears are my lover as you fade from sight
Pleasure was ours until you hid in your night

Harmony of Red

“I hear the question upon your lips: What is it to be a colour? 
Colour is the touch of the eye, music to the deaf, a word out of the darkness…
I’m so fortunate to be red! I’m fiery. I’m strong. I know men take notice of me and that I cannot be resisted.” – Orhan Pamuk,
My Name is Red

 

Mceklips
I hear the harmony of red, the sound coloring
the morning and evening blanket of night.
Tactile hallucinations of reality, melody of tints
bringing peace to spinning clouds.
Expressions of earths fiery embers, born in my soul,
songs of red seas to greet the darkened sky.
Eyes of primal mystery, songs of the black forest
redvisions of night reflected in searching eyes.
A harmonious melody, red repossesses
the land of my aching soul.
Be still now swirling colors of misty confusion
Red brings rest in her arms….

Also published in Wingposse, October 2012 

08162012

 

Harmony of Red

“I hear the question upon your lips: What is it to be a colour? 
Colour is the touch of the eye, music to the deaf, a word out of the darkness…
I’m so fortunate to be red! I’m fiery. I’m strong. I know men take notice of me and that I cannot be resisted.” – Orhan Pamuk,
My Name is Red

 

Mceklips
I hear the harmony of red, the sound coloring
the morning and evening blanket of night.
Tactile hallucinations of reality, melody of tints
bringing peace to spinning clouds.
Expressions of earths fiery embers, born in my soul,
songs of red seas to greet the darkened sky.
Eyes of primal mystery, songs of the black forest
redvisions of night reflected in searching eyes.
A harmonious melody, red repossesses
the land of my aching soul.
Be still now swirling colors of misty confusion
Red brings rest in her arms….

Also published in Wingposse, October 2012 

08162012

 

Knights Of Sleep

“Making love with a woman and sleeping with a woman are two separate passions, not merely different but opposite. Love does not make itself felt in the desire for copulation (a desire that extends to an infinite number of women) but in the desire for shared sleep (a desire limited to one woman).”
Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

I feel the pull of desire against my eyes


The drawbridge lowers deep in my castles of thought


These arduous doors are opened by a courting call


Lit by darkened dreams not from the day


But by the undulating billows of subtle night


Missing my physical touch I find only a Queen of slumber


I reach for you to hold the fading ethereal way


I am left with only the encroaching knights of sleep

Seeing, the Enemy of Sight – Living in now

“You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment. Fools stand on their island of opportunities and look toward another land. There is no other land; there is no other life but this.” – Henry David Thoreau
 
He reached out, with tentative explorations, in the heavy darkness. Night and day seem the same in a world where light refuses to shine. Colors are there, regardless of illumination, and he could on occasion feel them as real as the cold chill that accompanied this new life. When the vision of the journey’s end is robbed, and the consuming desire for just the next step outweighs all worry about the end of the day, a strange liberation occurs in the mind. It’s as though the ability to look far down the road robbed him of the necessity of realizing each step. This is where he found himself, alone with no thoughts of tomorrow, of where the journey will end, but concerned only where to put his foot down, or if to put it down. The survival of the next, not the consideration for the end, pushed him on and before he realized it, a mile lay behind him. The sightless cool night air let him live in the struggle for the next step. Strange the way of blindness that made seeing the enemy of sight, for his vision though gone, was now clearer then ever before. 

Rhythm Of Wings

 
“Lust’s passion will be served; it demands, it militates, it tyrannizes.”Marquis de Sade
“I think my passion is misinterpreted as anger sometimes. And I don’t think people are ready for the message that I’m delivering, and delivering with a sense of violent love.” – Charlie Sheen
Alight with you my love I float among the cloudy waves

On the wind a fevered fear that prolongs my only days

Not to see or to swim amongst the damp and fallen dew

But to glide along your endless shore and stroke the plain of you

Winds they blow and change their course to challenge my fancied flight

Only a protest against strong wings in this long and primal night

Starry witnesses show the way to this floating passionate soul

Earthen desires abandoned forever to wrestle in this stranglehold