Her legs were tan with heels that stretched Her
to the tip
of your imagination.
She made you crave
not just Her legs wrapped around your head but what was in
that marvelous head that’s lead by that deep
Where are the whispers that used to fill the inside of veins, “you want more”.
Give me lessssssssssss ons.
Give me lessons?
Give me freedoms.
Give me sleep.
Give me guiltless memories.
Give me kind interactions and a pillow of done enough.
Give me…nothing…no worth.
Give me jokes in face.
Your moms face.
Your moms face burnt with fire the bombs left her.
Left her an eye to give back to the soldier that saved her life…but he took that eye.
Why aren’t we laughing?
It’s a shame I must bleed in silence.
It’s a shame I must bleed in silence when so many others bleed.
It’s a shame I must bleed in silence when so many others bleed like me…
“It’s a damn shame.”
I say to myself in a way so no one else will hear me.
“It’s a pain.”
I proclaim as I can’t rest today when my insides are pulsing with moon.
All the world born from our womb.
Yet we are silenced with the claiming that to be treated equal I must pretend
to be the same.
Pretend I do not see nor let anyone else see…I bleed.
It’s a shame I must bleed in silence when it brings me to awareness with all senses flaring as I, woman, embrace my place in the Universe’s cycle.
My place in the visual connectedness of me to Universe through season’s of blood which bring forth life.
Beautiful blood held close in the womb emptied to feel again, begin again, heal again…
Damn shame I am meant to keep this magic to myself.
For I am medicine woman.
For I am woman.
We take our stance to heal the place of the her.
I taste her blood and give thanks for it’s existence.
Give thanks to the monthly sacrifice of self and time and comfort for life to exist.
I hold her blood.
I hold my blood.
I hold alls blood.
I give thanks for it and it’s pained keeper.
“Thank you for this taste of life again.”
She circles through.
Each time I taste her.
Each time I thank her,
each time for each one.
Each time for me.
It’s a shame to be alone in all this lovely bleeding. When so many bleed and have bled…
As vibrations from the speakers toss my insides
into a tingle.
I take it with ease until she enters…
I take it up a notch to the surface of reality
that must exist for lovers to not itch
I take myself out of the lush grass
to the land of tight muscles,
tight jaws creaking into the night.
I loose my form.
I take on the shape of another and I ask why.
Why, when it was me the whole time?
The one with the power
to change at the drop of a hat.
To find another
hat to wear.
Take myself for granted no longer.
You and I.
You are me,
I take you in my arms,
The one who has sold me on the story.
The one that has sold me on the relating of nothing
to everyone who relates to nothing.
Why did the stars form we know not.
It matters not.
Knowing the answer can do nothing but free the soul from questioning.
Yet questioning is what we hunger for.
It is the ultimate desire.
It is why we are empty when we figure
or believe we have figured
We need the unknown in order to feel alive.
In order to not die with addiction.
Addiction forming when the brain is bored in knowing.
The surrounding humans unable to handle
such awesomeness that can escape from one dream.
Unable to handle it enough to
dream for themselves.
Let it let it let it be.
times in repetitive forms of what but of course,
Everything is nothing and nothing is in all things.
All created equal.
For all things are made out of the nothing of everything. . . I soak.
Dance with me,
Take it in happy like wine
Take it in the form of her parted lips
She deserves this.
The kiss that will end all other kisses.
The kiss that makes her swivel her hips and take a whiff
exhaled by lover .
Left with no doubt of meaning.
good for you.
better for you.
Take the words given in the ache of a midnight
Take the information I give you.
Open her insides.
She waits. . .
she needs. . .
hair tangled hands to head to heat.
Meet and greet taking form of
holding down flesh of lover
taste of tongue savored.
Take these words in your mind and give her your lusting.
Talking to you is like talking to air…I wonder if the clutter it takes for me to ache ever reaches your ear.
Do you hear?
Do you hear?
Talking to you is paper bag brown and vulgar.
Lusting exits, slumber begins…the death of bed.
Talking with me is no better.
If the words fall sour and the tumbler sticks due to lack of lubricated intimacy, click tracked to conversation of space and time, the sound of foot prints fading, I must hear…clank, clunk.
Ravage me damn it!
Take it in and give it back out in the shout of your quiver.
Talking to you could be nothing, or everything. If I would stop to listen.
If you would drop in to listen.
If you would
Crisp moon at my feet, reflect to me my truest nature.
Lie to me not, for you know no such thing as ego.
Tell me, let go.
Arriving at the green blades edge, my spine straightened by the freeze of the mountain water.
I fall into cold.
fall into feeling…
Memories once shoved into the cozy corner of the forgotten, are now jolted from their slumber.
Rushing the front of my brain like daggers shot from a booby-trapped tomb. Piercing the core of my denial.
Moods flooding, the murky reflections of meant to be.
The smell cringing in bubbles exiting my mouth.
Let me feel the burn of it.
Let me drift to the bottom, toes touching upon mud
Allow the fish to eat my eyes first.
No longer needing to see.
The pain they have witnessed, not just of myself, is enough to ache for the tinge of the first nibble.
The decomposing of me.
Hold death, let me feel the weight of water filled lungs, mouth gaping, deceived by the assumption of oxygen’s availability to me at all times.
Let me feel the disappointment.
Let the childhood stories, beginning with sledding and ending in crumpled panties and lost innocence, tag along with my last scream.
Allow me the release of knowing I am food.
Not driven with purpose yet fulfilling THE purpose…to feed what I have eaten.
No permission needed,
All are welcome to the piece.
“You need to remember you are strong. You’re unstoppable when your strong.”
She tells me this while she sits in her own soft sadness.
We are the same. Craving love and attention, we have starved for long enough.
The nuclear family was not the support beams they were cracked up to be.
In fact the cracks were huge and she slipped through them.
Thats how we found each other.
I still have not healed fully from the chaos that was the co-dependacy and I feel her want to pull me back in and yet at the same time it is the safeness I have yearned for.
The home of, “All things are possible.”
Don’t tell me I need you…
No answers are needed…
Only tell me I am doing it already.
I am able and strong.
I am great at doing this for others…now me…
They are nothing with me and everything with themselves.
I need this as well.
Turn to the ones living the dream.
She has to remember.
I have to remember.
This time…I am here for her.
Who will tell me?
No One. I have to tell myself.
I tell myself I am strong enough, thank you for the idea.
You, strong enough too.
Strong enough to let the world into the private warmth and chaos that is me.
Comfort while icily looking forward.
Crave the intensity of love and not the ambition.
Get the hell up and dance.
Bear the soul that is deep as the ocean, the world is watching and in need.
All you envision is all that was given to you by the Universe, for the benefit of the Universe.
Sanity feeling like insanity.
Enlightenment feeling like darkness.
The tingle begins. It begins with in her grasping. . . HER.
You are the super human you have been envisioning.
Intense is the leader, hold your hand and let you guide you.
The soul is within not out, so again. . . Dance. hands high, voice just as big.
Take it all on, it was all meant for you…
Happiness is what I speak of damn it!
Enlightened with music, art, sight and sound. Take all on and be all.
For all is nothing. And nothing is simple right?
No choice. It was what she was born to do.
I am just fine. No aches at all thank you… good day.
She believes the human lives for the story.
The story of who they were, who they are, who they want to be and who doubted them as they still believed in well, the story of . . . them. . . of her…of you.
She ponders wishing on stars in the definition of labels.
Believing in grimacing and taking on the TIME as hers.
Thinking she was given IT, time, to invest in her life.
She sees now that you are the giving of nothing.
Nothing beyond the limits set before you, by others and the little they believed of themselves.
Which was fed by others who believed even less in themselves…and so on…
Questioning who she thought she was, who she thinks she is.
Questioning the dream created during a time of escape and survival.
Questioning even, the agreement of ink in relaying speech.
Agreed upon pronunciation.
Questioning, for even speech, same as God and Jesus and lack there of, was birthed by humans.
Created and passed on for the purpose of , what else but, a STORY.
Write again and again and again.
Write despite the doubt.
Write despite the ego.
The emotional times come and go, and it is coming again.
She thinks, “I would love me if I saw me in a corner.”
“I think I would come over and snuggle up under my chin, making me feel important to me.”
“I could do that.”
“I could see that happening. “
but the thoughts. . .
The thoughts rarely make it out of the brain without having strained its first intent through second and third thought.
These Ideas are not mine.
I have read them before same as I have read all ideas.
This day being the saints day,the saints that kill in order to worship day.
My day of worship to the jumble of word.
Worship to the emotion.
The emotion that can perhaps escape every once in a while from the second and third thought of reality.
Let the liquid squirt and let it burn in your eye, carve a memory on your intestine of the giggle that rumbled up and escaped your grown up lips.
The thoughts become murky as you try to find a way to bust through the internet lulling you to the view you have craved your whole life.
The view of you.
The view of your creation.
The virtual is now a canvas, now the out pouring of the soul, ink no longer needed.
And the fear that it will be gone forever is not needed. IT is always somewhere.
YOU may not always have it but someone will have it.
It will BE somewhere.
Even more so than paper and blood of earth.
Now it is in the mass webbing of portals you never knew existed just from pressing send.
So. . . send, and send, and send, and let the music rock you to your lulling place.
let the jive take out the broken blues that craved the big ten inch of life the kissing time that broke the sun into blue and purple pieces of self indulgence.Mmmmmmm…
The cock of the matter comes not near our mouth but our thoughts, the rooster roosts and left alone you feel partaken upon.
Given and withdrawn.
The red of the pillow makes you laugh. makes the smile creep.
You thought you would care more and give a shit less and it has worked out to be quite the opposite.
Crimson grace my lips, finger tips touch the smooth sides of me.
Look no further than the taste on your lips.
No further than the thoughts in your own head.
No one is guilty for creating you.
You are free, the thoughts are all you are.
The time is always passing and no longer are you relevant.
No longer are you needed nor disposed of.
You are nothing. and yet you are everything bendable and solid.
Water liquid contradiction.
Ramblings on the day that wine can feel free to come and take away.
Like it or not this is we.