Conductivity

“Don’t only practice your art, but force your way into its secrets, for it and knowledge can raise men to the divine.”
Ludwig van Beethoven
conductivity – Physiology: The conductibility of a structure, especially the ability of a nerve to transmit a wave of excitation.
 

Sex. Simple yet far reaching, the thing an entity that saved my life. When, from the cold water of torture, imposed by pious and selfish parents who were none of mine, I thought I embraced death, it rescued me to find solace in pleasure and left me desiring one thing:


Just hold me, dammit.”


I feel her skin, alive with little raised bumps of electric excitement, her whole body flush  following my rough fondling of her curved silken form. I’m a voluptuary, my addiction to hedonism born not from the experience of sex, but by the absence of pain that occurs when I drive my fingers into her, seeing her writhe with pleasure, making me a master of the forbidden divine, the whole of our experience being wrapped in the coddling clothes of sadness. What’s it like to take a woman? To ravish her senses before the nakedness appears and we are left with the remnants of pleasure? A grand symphony, composed by a deaf Beethoven of sensual explorations. Like Beethoven, with a deeper sense, a sixth sense, I perform my feats of conductivity with the excitement of promise, like the cool wind and smell of rain before the storm. Sex is my slave and I make her perform on women, instructed by things that excel the imagination. Who would think the evil forced on me would find creative expression in the many and varied spiritual exchanges with women, both imagined and feigned, consuming and exclusive.


Just hold me, damn it.”


The chorus of women far and near, as with a thirsty hunger they lay their bodies down before the coldness of physical experience, echoes in my cry, a cry that goes unheeded to this day:


Just hold me, damn it.”


The orgasms that I give freely in this trick or treat drama are merely candy to lure you to the vulnerability of touch without sex. I want you to hold me in the long after hours glow of cigarettes, tossed sheets, and stained memories of nights passed away with so many strangers, cold and staring, all longing for more than what sex has to offer.


Just hold me, damn it”

The Possession of Jay Be

“I don’t want to repeat my innocence. I want the pleasure of losing it again.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise 

victoria ann-marie
You weren’t supposed to be there gliding and playing

with the twirl and spin of music dancing and hiding

playfully dodging the inquisition of mind.


Beside the crazy love of fools I’m drinking and dreaming

pouring lasting shots of you in the spinning and flowing

gracefully shaking your skirt in the chill of eve.


I thought to measure long the soul of leaving and fawning

by shear force of the mystical wind forcing and holding

tenderly with gypsy delight you possesses me.

Blossom – Rebirth of a lover

What a strange thing!
to be alive
beneath cherry blossoms.” 
“A fallen blossom
returning to the bough, I thought –But no, a butterfly.” 

crazyformusic

Lightness, adrift but within my grasp always. 
Your like the blossoms of a tree, brushed off by the wind, 
yet still you belong to me, 
though we are apart. 
We are intertwined souls, mated by nature and God. 
Soon I shall lift you back up, 
from my roots you will be reborn 
to forever be one with me.
Your my bloom my love, this tree will always sustain you. 
I long for you to be on my branches once again, 
the whole of nature in agreement with the union. 
Oh how naked am I, my lover! 
How my branches sway at the sight of you! 
Come clothe me with your fragrant beauty, 
and let us be whole again!


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The Hermit Chronicles: Fallen Trees

“But other people also ‘invite’ us to behave like victims, when they complain about the unfairness of life, for example, and ask us to agree, to offer advice, to participate. Be careful. When you join in that game you always end up losing.” – Paulo Coelho, Bythe River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept
bloodlustritual
My life is at odds with the general push and shove of crowds. A crowd may be many people, or many words, both which are troublesome. My obstacles aren’t those of briar and bush, but of opinions and gossip. I’m a solitary traveler, troubling no soul along the way. Yet, here he comes, shoving my shoulder as he flies past, mumbling to himself about the error of my way. He assails my peace, that very thing that led me to wander alone. Why am I a trouble to those who hurry to find themselves at some dead-end, or worse, find themselves exhausted at journeys mid-point, gasping and lost? They are fallen trees and I step gingerly around their bulky frames of negativity that I may be unaffected by the nervous energies of their cumbersome discontent. At times they come in packs, each agreeing with the other and with faceless anonymity, slaying those who are at ease along their way. Their unique talent is to destroy dreams with doubtful comments and hinder progress with the attraction to follow their crowd. I maintain my distance though, and to dissuade them, I turn down a path of unknowing to find pastures of unsurpassed beauty. Follow my way through the brush, apart from the crowd, you can see the grasses and limbs bent to my will, a will that holds peace and protection from their diseases of mind and offers fellowship with the wind and the birds that fly on it, neither of us holding anxious thoughts of tomorrow. 

 

Death Of Our Seed – Death throes of love

The flowers anew, returning seasons bring! 
But beauty faded has no second spring.
Ambrose Philips
Would that I were a dry well, and that the people tossed stones into me, for that would be easier than to be a spring of flowing water that the thirsty pass by, and from which they avoid drinking.” – Kahlil Gibran

Image Credit: altitudinarian

I wander, looking, not feeling. Experiencing but remembering nothing. The taste is gone, bland are the fire scorched courses of your love. I wander around the echoing rooms of passions castle, like a spider hunting in the sedentary atmosphere, catching my supply and watching the inactivity with many points of view. My meandering desire leads me to other lands; stepping on the thorns of my morality, my feet are hesitant to find the new, knowing it violates the old. Satisfaction, though fleeting, is found in errant trysts. Excuses are easy to make when I am dilapidated; rotten and broken like the old planks in the floor. Shoving the rusted door of our haven, the hinges squeal in loud eery cries, giving up their life in broken protest; they can no longer bear the lack of attention. Revelations are born in tense moments, your eyes meet mine and the truth wants to be spoken, yet remains hidden; these are haunting times. Lovers find it hard to pull the trap door on the hangman’s rig; to see their intimacy in death throes, struggling at the end of the rope of boredom. The sun rises, a strong wind blows, a storm is coming; it hits hard and washes away the mementos of years, bringing relief. Nature does what I loath to do, destroying the useless and dangling appendages of a dead love, giving birth to hope on the dry and barren paths. In this newness I linger, amazed at what comes from the death of love; like the death of a seed, it breaks the hardened ground with fingers of new passion, restoring my faith and blinding me again with lust unconfined and unexplored.

Also published in Broowaha Citizen Magazine

Death Of Our Seed – Death throes of love

The flowers anew, returning seasons bring! 
But beauty faded has no second spring.
Ambrose Philips
Would that I were a dry well, and that the people tossed stones into me, for that would be easier than to be a spring of flowing water that the thirsty pass by, and from which they avoid drinking.” – Kahlil Gibran

Image Credit: altitudinarian

I wander, looking, not feeling. Experiencing but remembering nothing. The taste is gone, bland are the fire scorched courses of your love. I wander around the echoing rooms of passions castle, like a spider hunting in the sedentary atmosphere, catching my supply and watching the inactivity with many points of view. My meandering desire leads me to other lands; stepping on the thorns of my morality, my feet are hesitant to find the new, knowing it violates the old. Satisfaction, though fleeting, is found in errant trysts. Excuses are easy to make when I am dilapidated; rotten and broken like the old planks in the floor. Shoving the rusted door of our haven, the hinges squeal in loud eery cries, giving up their life in broken protest; they can no longer bear the lack of attention. Revelations are born in tense moments, your eyes meet mine and the truth wants to be spoken, yet remains hidden; these are haunting times. Lovers find it hard to pull the trap door on the hangman’s rig; to see their intimacy in death throes, struggling at the end of the rope of boredom. The sun rises, a strong wind blows, a storm is coming; it hits hard and washes away the mementos of years, bringing relief. Nature does what I loath to do, destroying the useless and dangling appendages of a dead love, giving birth to hope on the dry and barren paths. In this newness I linger, amazed at what comes from the death of love; like the death of a seed, it breaks the hardened ground with fingers of new passion, restoring my faith and blinding me again with lust unconfined and unexplored.

Also published in Broowaha Citizen Magazine

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