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| | Séance Page 76 of 93 (53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93) | I search’d for melancholy, and found peace.
From the mind of dolor’s abeyance, I became balance.
I drained the wineberries; mixed them with cloudberries;
Fermented Sophia’s elixir; and consumed my fool’s paradise.
Within the soul’s forest, I climb’d the old world sycamore tree.
This power is exhilarating. This feeling is addictive.
The secrets unlock’d. The whispers became flesh.
I am complete spirit here. Who can but express this awakening?
Who can but embrace the living? | |
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| map from memory
Posted: 4/9/2009 4:57:32 AM | more than any moment
minds can mutate into memories
more than everything you know
runs false and true.
part-planned path paved in knowing,
more to touch than hands can hold
patterns practiced then broken,
real can only be from what we do. | |
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| map from memory
Posted: 4/20/2009 5:25:45 AM | In the state of in between
You remember wisdom
Although what you have experienced
Is supposed to make a pathway to heaven
If only, I was guaranteed that promise
So I live in melancholy
With a smile naughtily pasted on my face
Even children giggle with glee when they
Hear my witch’s cackle and they don’t ask why
Not even Spielberg has captured me
Crying when …
Sometimes I have moments of sanity
………..,,,Ode to Don Quixote
Saving a private odyssey | |
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| map from memory
Posted: 4/24/2009 4:17:58 PM | feathered
Why do I know
the feeling of power
in my chest
how to unfold my wings
and glide?
Why is it I carry
this giddy joy
for boundless skies,
banking into current -
the marvel of
perfection
when flesh melds to wind?
LS 4/24/08 | |
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| Infusion of Music
Posted: 5/16/2009 4:21:12 PM | Music infuses the waves
Sudden agony befalls a soul
I cry for thee wisdom
For no one is listening
My paramour, fire
Awaits us
I carry our onus
Have we not tasted sin!
I feel a tinge of sunlight
As God dances through
Energy
My heart is galvanized
I do not have religion
I have spirit
I have a ghost
I do not have man
Find a smile for me
Hold my child in pain
Sprinkle my ashes in love
I shall appear again
Music infuses the waves
Sudden agony befalls a soul
I cry for thee wisdom
For no one is listening
Naive | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 5/16/2009 4:50:01 PM | roger.
his young body
blowing in the breeze
hanging from a cedar tree
swaying silently
in the cool spring night
stone heavy
in my belly
Grief is a private thing
i let Him into my bed
like an unwanted Lover
fvcking me savagely
to exhaustion
then turned and walked away | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 5/18/2009 1:20:31 PM | Refuge from Athena
Athena looked into my eyes,
The frigidity of her heart
Softened. Athena panic’d
Within innocence of my
Eyes. I couldn’t help but
Crumble at her feet. Athena
Burst into tears. We held
Each other until the sun rose.
How do I again hate? For
Love is the pain of Yahweh.
I now ponder within thoughts of
Non-objectivity—Athena has
Slipped through my fingers.
God! Hast thou ever loved me?
I search for Athena: desperate
Eyed, Byzantine bewitched,
Afflicted from cloudberries,
Crawling through grottos
Of absurdity. I yin a hovel
Of refuge to rescue me of
My love of Athena. Is there
Such a refuge? Athena! Hold me.
Naive | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 5/18/2009 1:20:40 PM | Refuge from Athena
Athena looked into my eyes,
The frigidity of her heart
Softened. Athena panic’d
Within innocence of my
Eyes. I couldn’t help but
Crumble at her feet. Athena
Burst into tears. We held
Each other until the sun rose.
How do I again hate? For
Love is the pain of Yahweh.
I now ponder within thoughts of
Non-objectivity—Athena has
Slipped through my fingers.
God! Hast thou ever loved me?
I search for Athena: desperate
Eyed, Byzantine bewitched,
Afflicted from cloudberries,
Crawling through grottos
Of absurdity. I yin a hovel
Of refuge to rescue me of
My love of Athena. Is there
Such a refuge? Athena! Hold me.
Naive | |
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| A Faith I cannot Impart
Posted: 6/18/2009 5:00:58 PM | At this very moment
I am out of tears;
But in my petit dreams
I wail; for my mind is
Afflicted with splintery
Angst.
There is a ghost upon
Me. Her reflection has
Scarred my inner mirror.
Sing a hymn for me
Mother Mary! I beg
Of thee.
I thirst for the arcane
As furtive memories
Plague me unto I am
atwitter. I pray that an
Aureous halo awaits me;
For pain is the suffering
Of God.
A byzantine spirit taps
Upon my windowpane.
Though crestfallen, I stare
In amazement. I have been
Kissed in spirit—void
Of an utterance to convey
Such Truth.
At this very moment
I am out of tears;
But in my petit dreams
I wail; for my mind is
Afflicted with splintery
Angst.
Is there an unwritten
Decalogue which burns
Within the soul!—for the
More I attempt to live,
The harder I find it is to
Breathe. Sing a hymn for
Me, Mother Mary! I beg
Of thee.
My days are discolored.
I walk through the
Cemeteries counting graves
—doleful and envious of
The dead—suffocated
By what I fail to discern.
If only God would appear
I could subjugate fear
Allay all doubts, and
Finally see clear.
I am chi, but I am thwarted.
I require more than a
Tarot reading—
More than the Zohar can give.
Yom Kippur has
Depleted me.
I am out of repentance.
I must see Thee:
Tattwas is not enough.
I need to touch thy face
Yahweh.
At this very moment
I am out of tears;
But in my petit dreams
I wail; for my mind is
Afflicted with splintery
Angst.
As I enter the
Sweat lodge—I am
Mindful, mindful that I
Need more than a vision.
In Aramaic tongues I
Explode. As my pieces
Are put back together,
I feel an invisible hand—
I have touched an invisible
Tallit. I am no longer
Sackcloth—I am a faith
That I cannot impart. | |
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| Life
Posted: 6/24/2009 8:54:32 PM | Life is evanescent,
An agony which thwarts the essence.
Life is evanescent,
It leaves us forever whet;
It condescends as one does a pet.
Life is unmerciful, demanding respect.
How have we learned to exist so passively?
Life is evanescent,
A deep breath, a brief expression.
Life is evanescent:
A cosmic defect;
More profound than “cause and effect.”
Naive | |
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| Breath
Posted: 6/26/2009 3:59:08 PM | It is God’s will that I breathe.
I was a fatidic plan; thus, I
Breathe; But I never gave
Permission to do such. I
Was never given a choice.
How is it that I breathe! I burn
Frankincense praying for an
Answer. Days continue to turn.
I am a halcyon hillside disturbed.
I am a callow child clinging to a verb.
I am fraught with consternation.
I so need God. I so need meditation.
It is God’s will that I breathe.
Abed, afire with angst, I felt a flood of
Deception. I have been sold a dream.
Life is absurd—a deceptive stream.
Have I revealed that I was ordained
To breathe? How was I ordained to
Breathe? Could it not be a haphazard
blunder ? Could it not be by chance?
I was preordained to breathe.
My only vang is breath—it sustains
My very breath. Breath sustains me.
From breath, I cannot break free.
I am again a slave—a slave to breathing.
Who ever said it was my desire to breathe?
I am the byproduct of a lustful embrace.
I am an accident. Was I not a mistake?
I am a halcyon hillside disturbed.
I am a callow child clinging to a verb.
I am fraught with consternation.
I so need God. I so need meditation.
I never asked to breathe.
I never asked to feel so trapped.
Existence is a prison. But
I must exist for I breathe.
Naive | |
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| F*cking Nomes
Posted: 6/26/2009 10:31:02 PM | I threw off the covers and stepped on the floor,
and made my way out to the door.
I opened it up in much a strange way,
and what do you think I did see?
It was the nome from the yard he had his sisters and his cousins,
they were dancing and singing a tune.
I could barely make it out when they began to shout,
"He's come for to take us to the moon!"
To the moon I did think, and away I tried to slink,
but the buggers they did follow me.
To the room I then run,
because for me it was not fun.
And those nomes started singing their song:
"To the moon he will take us,
that ole boy he'll not shake us!"
Then they started banging on the door.
I quickly threw the lock,
grabbed the gun and then c ocked.
But his sisters and his cousins,
who numbered in the dozens,
found their way in to try and foil me.
I fired a shot and knocked the first one out,
and all tumbled like pins on the floor.
One jumped up and I took another shot.
That's when they got real smart,
and knew I hadn't another round on me.
Another and another and another did come,
they had me on the run,
climbing on the bed after me.
I threw the pillows at em,
and with the blanket I nabbed em.
These f*cking nomes will not get me!
A bell began to ringing,
an alarm I must be thinking,
as I woke up from my terrible dream.
F*cking nomes...you gotta love 'em! | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 6/27/2009 7:30:02 AM | Stone
I’m falling, I’m stone
just a wall of concrete
bonded by things I’ve said
by notes as they played
refrains to empty caverns
vacant spaces in my head
reflections in glass
shadow visions of a path
shards scrape my face
watching as life flows past
but they leave no trace
obeying the static signs
swallowing my mind
laced to souls threadbare
running in the human race
blinded my eyes don’t care
finding no solace in this place
punching through clouds of doubt
crying dust as sand pours out
so I kneel under the sun
looking at the barrel of a gun
and I fall to stone
just a wall of concrete
bonded by things I’ve said
by notes as they played
refrains to the empty caverns
vacant spaces in my head
I’m falling, I’m stone
just a wall of concrete
weighing me down | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 6/27/2009 9:42:59 PM | hard cast blackness vail exhaled from my soul
a breathe of life lost to sunken skies
candles reaping from darkness their glow
alabaster prisons before my fading steps
there I fall to thy mercy
cry with me
my tears that ignite the fires of hell
and seperate the seas upon which I have walked
moments lost in infinite time
seconds become eons
darkness flies in vibratous calamaty
escaped prisoner of the examiners light
agonous pain screaming forth the silence that binds day and night
a silver thread of truth that runs throughout
all creation
entropy
shadow | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 6/30/2009 8:54:35 AM | [Lisa]
Lisa is a sylph,
Man’s midsummer angst.
Lisa drives man to sin.
We are peccant—paint
Our anxiety to the wind.
Lisa is a quiescent goddess.
She colors man in uncertainty.
She drives man unto madness;
Leaving his soul whet wit desire.
Lisa is winsome, the radix of
Intense beauty. She is regalia—
Rejuvenescence of man’s
Essence. Lisa is a diamond.
Lisa is resplendent.
For her love man is penchant,
Pensive, wistful and repentant;
But Lisa belongs to no man.
One finds Lisa is a reliquary.
One finds Lisa by chance.
Lisa is seemingly imaginary.
Lisa is more than romance.
I love you, Lisa. You are the
Efflorescence of existence—
An effulgence of spirit—I
Love of you despite evanescence.
Lisa is an emblem of perfection.
Who can resist her essence?
She is a prophetic masterpiece.
Lisa is the taming of the beast.
Lisa I have begged of you
Not to take my love for vain.
I have begged of you to feel
The flame; But Lisa is bane;
Lisa is a poison surging through
Mans’ veins. Lisa is a hurricane
Waging war within man’s brain.
Lisa is man’s number one desire.
Naive | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 6/30/2009 8:57:28 AM | Greetings everyone. I should probably leave more feedback. But I haven’t. If you google your own screen name—this should bring you a level of satisfaction. People from all over are reading our work.
Nevertheless, I do read the posts. And I feed off of the energy within these pages—and neighboring threads.
Well, enough rambling.
Peace and Love,
Naive | |
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| A few Chapters From My Novel That I am Working On
Posted: 7/1/2009 11:00:39 AM | [Existential Angst]
Chapter I
While exploitation flashes before my eyes on the television screen, my back aches, my eyes are glossy, and all I can do is think of my daughter. She is a young adult—unaware of the many existential complications that await her arrival in the near future. Rylee is an adorable, magnificent, unsuspecting angel: How do I prepare her for the inevitable? It is virtually impossible. Nonetheless, I am infected with philosophy, thus, I cannot let go. I must figure out a way to prepare my only gift for the unpredictable. How does a man say to his child that existence is no more than an illusion, no more than an unavoidable tragedy, no more than the shadow of death constantly nibbling upon our heels! If only it were to help, I would shed a tear; but tears are for those who do not understand the ways of existence. I have come to understand that I am destined to die in vain—unless I touch the hearts and minds of the entire world, unless I prepare my precious angel for the inevitable. Who has accomplished such a task? We live dying; and from the cradle, our only promise is the grave. We perish in pieces. No one is aware of our agony; despite the fact that we are brave enough to muster up a smile from time to time. How many times have we smiled, weeping inside? How many times have we realized that we are an invisible existence?
This afternoon I met an angelic, physically aesthetic, woman with the intellect of David Hume. To hear her articulate sentences, to hear her draw deductions, is comparable to embracing the divine. Nevertheless, there was sadness about her countenance. I trespassed. I asked of the root of this very sadness. She stared in amazement; for rarely does a man ask of a woman to speak of the scars that plague her soul. She looked upon me in a daze—asking, ‘Are you willing to listen?’ I responded with compassion: ‘please, share with me.’ Linda fell apart. She couldn’t help but die in degrees.
In her hands was a book. The author was Kierkegaard. Linda was puzzled. She asked me of what I felt it means to take a “leap of faith.” Numbness became me. Swollen with the intensity of angst, I uttered, ‘I am without words to explain.’ Linda just stared into my eyes. This assuredly was a rare encounter. I asked: ‘What is it that you draw from Kierkegaard’s words?’ She said, ‘I am unsure. But the thought consumes me.’
Linda paced the floor of the café as I sat at a square table, digging within myself for words that I could give utterance to that would alleviate Linda’s anguish. But it is far too difficult to address that that one does not understand. In tuned with my very thought, Linda finally expressed to me what had been ailing her. Linda, a thirty five year old woman, had met a young Adonis. Stephen had bewitched her with his words of romance. He promised things that were absolutely unbelievable; but Linda needed a man to believe in. Stephen was a philosopher, and thus academically manipulative. He understood Linda. He promised that he would protect her—keep her happy—and never leave her side. Linda needed to believe.
Linda, athirst for Stephen, decided to surprise him. She arrived at his office about a quarter to seven in the evening. When she approached the college campus, Linda felt uneasy. She moved forward in the direction of Stephen’s office. Linda’s stomach became nauseous. Linda had no idea of what was to confront her. She pressed the elevator button, headed for the ninth floor, the ivory tower. The elevator doors opened without delay. Linda entered, trying to bypass the nausea—trying to feel the embrace of Stephen. She exited the elevator, headed towards Stephen’s office. The hallway was cold. Linda walked its length. She could hear the whispers of agonizing passion—she could hear in the distance, Stephen’s voice. He was alive. He was ecstatic. He was begging for more. Linda could not understand what she was hearing. When Linda approached the entrance of Stephen’s office, she screamed. Stephen was deep within the womb of Theresa—his coworker—his secret.
Linda died in degrees. At that very moment, hope had committed suicide—faith was dangling from a tree—Linda’s love for Stephen had given up the ghost. Stephen was oblivious to what to say. Theresa smiled within. She had long desired to have Stephen for herself—all to herself. Linda dragged her dying soul back to the elevator. Stephen, while putting on his pants, gave chase. Linda wailed hysterically. The elevator was moving slowly. It finally opened. Linda entered without haste. Stephen attempted to follow. Linda begged him to go away. Linda screamed and cried—begging Stephen to return to his love. Stephen, stressed and guilty, cut by such words, exited the elevator, allowing the doors to close. Linda arose from the tile, pressing the button for the first floor. When the doors opened, Linda looked into the above lights of the elevator, praying that it was all just a dream—realizing that her world had just shattered in pieces—realizing that Stephen had just crucified her heart, crumbling within the palms of his hands her love for mankind.
I sat at that square table, unaware of how to respond. The pain, the sorrow, the thorns of existence, had revealed themselves in Linda’s eyes. Her skin was flushed. Her tears beckoned mercy. She was nigh the brink of an insane episode. I just held Linda, lying, given utterance to a falsehood that all would be well in due time. Spectators just gawked. What else was I too utter? I had long taken it to be true that “reason is a fabrication of the intellect.” It is created from within. It is not to be found out there in the real world. But what is the real world? Moreover, is not existence an unpredictable tragedy? How was I to say to Linda that her pain was only in her mind, the mind she uses to reason with; for existence in itself is pain! Existence is a paradox: aloof, enigmatic, and contradictory. We know nothing with certainty; but we know enough to realize that we are deathly face to face with an unpredictable predicament. Thus, I just held Linda. I was unwilling to expose the appearance that her hurt had been intensified from within. I was unwilling to lie to myself. Linda’s reasoning had done more than attach her to her suffering. Reasoning had awakened her. Linda’s reasoning had brought her face to face with the inevitable. I was unwilling to suggest that Stephen’s actions were no more condemnable than the capacity we each possess to project our thoughts upon the world—anticipating that our psychic projections have a one to one correlation with reality.
We are aware of our reality; and our reality is bleak. Who was I to rob Linda of the sensational sensations of agony and betrayal? Who was I to utter to Linda that she was acting irrationally; for is not irrationality the act of continuing to exist after we have determined that existence is an absurd tragedy debilitating us in degrees—in gradations ushering us towards the grave? I was therefore happy for Linda; for she was still able to feel existence—she was able to feel through the art of love and betrayal—betrayal of a social contract made between two naïve and witty, unsuspecting individuals that needed something to believe in—if only for a moment that was shattered by the unpredictable.
Chapter II
I awoke with a hangover. The night had been long with red wine, rich foods, and sexual ecstasy. I had deceived myself with liquor. I had become enchanted by the ambience of intrigue. Amber is a poetic dream. She gave utterance to sentences that were structured with such ease. We danced. We laughed. At moments our eyes watered. There is nothing more compelling, more so electrifying, than an educated woman.
Inebriated and deliberate, we painstakingly made love—permitting our worries and concerns to perish in agonizing sensational bliss. We gnawed upon each other. We ravished one another. We screamed and moaned. We collapsed. Our flesh revealed bruises as the sun dawned upon the windowpane.
Amber was making breakfast. The aroma had awakened me. While my head pounded, I pulled myself up from the bed. The entire room was full of light—full of the aftermath of love. It was calming. It set my spirit aflame. I had to feel Amber. I rushed to the restroom—washed my face—and rinsed my mouth out with scope. I thereafter headed for the kitchen. There Amber stood, in a see through negligee. I held her tightly and complimented her on her beauty, and thus immediately spoke of the incantative aroma in the kitchen. Amber smiled. She had just finished making omelets. She placed an omelet on each plate, picked the plates up and gracefully approached the dining room table—placing a plate before me and one before her self.
While I drifted into Amber’s palatial eyes, I became uneasy inside. I had given myself over to the moment. I felt that I was betraying myself. It was as if a daymare had befallen me. I begin to think of Linda, the way she had been destroyed in degrees. I do not wish to voluntarily offer myself over to being destroyed in degrees. I have known Amber for lest than a week. Am I dandling? Is Amber no more than a fugacious passion? Assuredly, I am thinking as a child. There is no such thing as a time bracket when it comes to love. Were Amber and I to religiously wait a month, two months, perhaps a year, perhaps until we were married, before we allowed ourselves to become susceptible to the Dionysian magnetism which surged throughout our veins? I am ashamed of such thoughts. But yet and still, I panic. I am afraid of love, terrified of feeling vulnerable. It is far too soon to have such intense feelings taking place in my members. Amber broke my trance. ‘Are you alright, my love?’ I gave utterance to a lie, ‘I am doing well, my love. I have never felt more complete.’
Amber, a trained psychologist, discerned that I was holding back. Amber could intuit, merely by the intonation of my voice, that something was askew. She inquired—asking of me to be honest. I confessed. ‘Amber, I am somewhat anxious of the way that you have made me to feel. Being with you is unto a feeling that I am unfamiliar with. I want desperately to give myself over to romance. But I cannot help but feel apprehensive. Your dulcet voice, your elysian disposition, your quick wit, and your seductive features, they cause me to believe that a man would be daft witted to believe that he could possess you—that he could be equipped to hold your attention far into the future. Amber, you have affected me sorely.’
Amber, after a long pause, said ‘that life is more than a mystery. It is absolutely what you construct it to be. You must learn to just be.’ She asked: ‘Are you bold enough to grab fortune by its neck? Are you willing to set aside your angst and embrace the spirit of chance?’ I sat there in a daze. At that very moment, such salacious electricity existed between us ever intensifying. I reached for Amber’s hand. As a statuesque goddess, Amber looked upon me as only a minx could, hypnotizing me with her stare. Again I confessed. ‘Amber, I am here to construct fate. I am here to grab fortune by its neck. But I cannot deceive myself. I am a roué poet. You are a prismatic minx. What type of future awaits us? What type of future awaits two individuals that are both sybarites?’ Our minds were afoul. We wanted so much to ignore the obvious. I had divulged a weakness. Amber did not wish to exploit my weakness. ‘Do you wish to leave me? Why are you making things so webbed?’ I was taut with indecision. Every thought within me was unto a twinge of lightening. I forced myself to speak. ‘Amber, despite what shall become of us, I embrace you wholeheartedly, foreseeing that this love will destroy us; for we are dancing upon sulfurous ground. It is so difficult to tame the thirst of a poet; and much more difficult to neutralize the vibrations of a siren; but whet, pensive, with a thirst for paining joy, we shall embark upon this journey of turbulence and uncertainty. Amber arose from the table. Tears were in her eyes. She reached for me, holding me tightly—asking: ‘Why have you forced me to love you?’
When I entered my apartment, vertigo was upon me. Amber had insulated herself within my spirit. I kept asking myself had she chosen the right victim. Was I ever ripe for such a woman to slip into my mind? She had challenged me. She challenged me to give into the flow of existence. But I was more concerned with keeping composure. I was overwhelmed with the ideal of maintaining emotional balance. But what is love without unpredictability? What is poetry without the touch of misery? I so need to possess Amber. But urgently, I need to possess myself. I am faced with a nightmare. Amber will not permit herself to be possessed. She is unto a Gemini. One may ever entertain. One may ever love. However, a Gemini is unable to fully give. I am faced with a dilemma. Amber is a conundrum. Should I deceive myself? Am I prepared to play chess with such a goddess? I yearn for the temptation. But am I willing to voluntarily drink from the furnace of affliction? Am I willing to voluntarily die in degrees?
Chapter III
I am newly born. Today I will live life without restraint. While this very thought captured my spirit, the phone rang. It was Linda. She asked if I would meet her for brunch. I was not necessarily in the mood for meeting Linda. Linda has a gift for dragging one into that philosophical realm of constant inquiry; where answers are camouflaged in portraits of uncertainty; where uncertainty becomes a hindrance to thought; where the mind proves itself as the adversary. I did not wish to explore the philosophical labyrinth today. There are too many psychic landmines to avoid therein. Nonetheless, I have come to appreciate Linda. She is a blessing to any man who still yearns for naïveté. Thus, I told Linda that I was more than willing to meet with her for brunch. But I asked of her to keep things simple.
I met Linda at the café. She sat at the exact same square table where she had first revealed to me her soul. Linda appeared serene, incandescent, and brilliant in her disposition. I approached as one does a sacred shrine. Linda asked of me not to be so formal. Linda is astute. She discerns with ease. I asked, ‘has the sun returned to shelter your soul?’ Linda smiled with grace. Her smile caused me to lose balance. I asked her to dim the light of her angelic presence. She gazed upon me with eyes of enquiry. I had seen that look many times. I know the depth of its curiosity. I fluttered inside. My skin became flushed. Linda continued to stare. Her glance was solemn. Something within me gave utterance to words that betrayed me: ‘Linda, have we unsuspectingly grown fawn of one another?’ Linda gave birth to a poetic stream:
I had never known love,
Until you came to me:
I was unto a fruitless tree.
I had never known love,
Until my embrace of a dove;
I was barren; I could not see.
I had never known love,
Until you came to me.
I was speechless; but I forced myself to speak. ‘Linda, you cause me to believe.’ She responded, ‘you must learn to believe.’ A waiter approached us. He asked if we were ready to place our order. To place an order was far from my thoughts. My mask was shedding. My true self was peeking. My spirit was revealing itself without the familiar desire of retreating. Linda responded to the waiter, ‘we will not be placing an order, destiny awaits us.’ I was somewhat befuddled; but clarity came rushing in. Linda arose from the table and gestured for an exit while gripping her delicate fingers into my right arm. At that very moment, I desired Linda as Fredrick Douglass had desired freedom. Linda continued to grasped destiny by the neck. She said, ‘unless you object to the will of fate, we should position ourselves in the direction of my home and permit destiny to unfold.’ I gave my consent in silence.
Linda lived five blocks from the café. As we walked to her home, a seismic pulsation rushed throughout my veins. As a child would, I asked: ‘What awaits us at your home, Linda?’ Linda is seductively wise. She responded with: ‘What would you suspect it is that awaits us?’ Although I was hooked to a vision, entangled in a web of anticipation, I told Linda that ‘I am unsure. I am certain that a physical embrace awaits us; but I feel moonish inside. This moment is so much more to me than an occurrence of chance. Linda, I am bewitched by fate. I have no idea of how we have fallen into this space. Please, help me to understand.’ Linda confessed that she was wistful for our first embrace. She expressed that she looked upon me as something special, unique and divine. ‘Are you not merely suffering on the rebound?’ I asked. Linda’s eyes watered. We stopped in mid-step of our trek. Her home was three houses away. Linda gave life to words that exploded upon impact: ‘I at this very moment love you. You are more concerned with my emotional state of being than you are with the inevitability of us making love. You want for me to be certain that this is the appropriate path. But I have yearned for you unto dizziness. Stephen is unto an ancient building that has long ago been destroyed. Your face constantly assails my inner eye. Your words are ever resonating within my inner ear. You have become a part of me. I lust for you as a priest does for God. Do not deprive us of ecstasy’s manifestation.’
We entered Linda’s home, seemingly suspended in time. Linda’s poetry was still ringing within my spirit. I felt sacred. I felt that our union was hallowed by the gods. Linda began to undress me. I aided Linda in doing the same. She stood there in utter magnificence. Linda is a picturesque goddess. I reached for Linda, sinking my teeth deep within her neck. I tasted blood. Linda moaned in agony. I gripped each of Linda’s lower thighs beneath my forearms. I was eager to thrust pressure deep within Linda’s matrix. Linda grasped my phallic throb, placing my nature at the entrance of her earthly heaven. I gently maneuvered inwardly until I penetrated deep within. Linda yelped. I had never felt like more of a man than I felt at that very moment. Linda dug her teeth deep into my right shoulder. I felt the flesh break. This drove me to thrust deeper. My nature ached. My flesh seemed as moist as the ocean. Linda moaned, begging me to take advantage. I was unrestrained. I fell upon Linda unto we fell upon the coach. I pushed both of her knees behind each of her ears. Linda’s yelps became overwhelming. Cosmic vibrations electrified us. I continued to go deeper. Linda’s matrix convulsed violently. She convulsed in seismic waves. I dug deeper as Linda’s womb grew wetter and tighter. I soon exploded. We held each other as tears feel from our eyes, as blood trickled from our flesh, as our bodies convulsed uncontrollably.
I awoke to the mystery of Linda’s voice. She immediately asked of me to leave. I was addled. Thus I cried: ‘Did we not make love? Did we not push beyond the boundaries of repression? Did we not taste each others blood?’ But Linda was firm. She wished of me to leave. I gathered my clothes and dressed with poise. Linda just stared upon me. I was finally dressed. However, I was not about to leave without hearing the ocean in Linda’s eyes; for I dare not attempt to contain the fire of the sea. Thus I cried: ‘Linda, what are you doing to us? Why are you suddenly afraid of the exact stream of emotions that have compelled me to love you? You drive me into the lakes of depression.’ Linda fell apart. She begged of me to leave. But I couldn’t. ‘What is wrong, my love?’ A maelstrom consumed Linda. She was unapproachable. I dared to approach the fire. Linda reached out for me, giving utterance to words that paralyzed me:
In the blackness of leprosy,
With a tinge of blood dripping,
You appeared to me:
The infection of my wound!
I induced you to love,
Knowing that I was afraid.
You are unto a ghost to me:
The awaiting of my giving
Up of the same!
We have embraced in lust—
Athirst for the extraordinary.
But we will acquire broken glass;
Banshee infested attics of the mind;
Psyches filled with regret;
And an empty container,
Full of our infectious souls.
I was again speechless. Linda is a chameleon. She is a multivalent rainbow opposing itself. She had left me in a state of kef. I was at a lost of words. But something within me was compelled to speak. ‘Linda, are you afflicted? You mustn’t destroy the magic. Something so sacred and peaceful has befallen us. Why would you deliberately destroy something so precious?’ Linda was hysterical. She pleaded with me to leave. I approached the front door, looking back upon the countenance of indecision and grief. Looking back as the door slammed shut upon our future.
Naive | |
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| A few Chapters From My Novel That I am Working On
Posted: 7/5/2009 11:19:22 PM | | J - I enjoyed having a bedtime story to read. Do we get another chapter or do we have to buy the book *grin* It's fun watching you write in prose and developing a plot. You always amaze me. A daughter huh and a pretty one at that. | |
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| A few Chapters From My Novel That I am Working On
Posted: 7/20/2009 12:03:03 PM | | very much enjoyed this different style of writing from you.....you paint the picture well and kept my attention (have i mentioned that i have ADD?....haha, i know only a half a million times).....either way, just wanted to give you props.....and let you know that i, too, am wondering whether we'll get more or whether we'll hafta buy the book... | |
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Inicia
| | Joined: 12/21/2007
Msg: 1895 | |
| A few Chapters From My Novel That I am Working On
Posted: 7/20/2009 6:47:36 PM | You woke her from her slumber
Called to her and beckoned her
Dead eyes
Summoned for naught purpose
Her empty mind your words do stir
Awake
On a world occupied
From within cavernous depths
Kings spat
Spilling useless seed in her
She did not receive their life blood
Mouth full
Mutely swallowing the spore
Stomach acids destroying
The fruit
Regurgitating the husk
Planting life in the womb
It grows
Filling the soul with her dreams
That shall tread upon her body
Know fear
Instead knows only fatigue
Swallowing so much tare
Wake me
For this purpose you shake me
To know that time does recede
Quickly
Doing laundry in paradise
For another short cycle
Blood stains | |
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| A few Chapters From My Novel That I am Working On
Posted: 8/5/2009 10:56:14 AM | Occults
Is not everything occultic?
A thin line is suffocating us.
This night has become darker
—but there’s a glint in this vestibule.
I follow light to her womb.
Goddess, bless her fruit with spirit.
It’s opalescent, a jungle of colors.
Cougars are gentle with me.
We wrestle in mantis harmony.
Tell me, was God picklocked?
We are eternity, every stream of logos.
A necklace, a bracelet, laced with magic.
Is not life a spell?
Allow me to go deeper.
Allow me to find heaven.
I have rift a tallit to threads.
Skyclad before a talisman
We explode unto gods.
We exhaust heaven.
Out of the Zohar, Kabbalah becomes
Flesh. Allow me to go deeper.
Into the glens of mysticism, we search.
Penelope too is subject to apostasy.
I am a summer sin, a seductive Eve.
Did I unlock lust?—an ancient breeze!
Atwitter we ponder in passion—
Devastating flesh left fraught with pain.
I shall sacrifice to God. Is this
Not the mind of Israel?
Two shall become one.
When did image become sin?
I watched a priest fall apart.
Must I fall upon horns upon an altar?
“Ravish me my Love.
Forsake all and come to me.
Live again.
Be cursed in pleasures untold.
Become the man God created.
Does God not love woman?
‘Be fruitful and multiply.’
Man cannot multiply alone.” | |
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| A few Chapters From My Novel That I am Working On
Posted: 8/16/2009 9:15:19 PM | It all changed
I was love
It became profit
It became aloof
It cut me
It dragged me to hell
I resurrected
Albeit I drank venom
I touched magic
I touched pain
I loved it
For now I live
Where are you? | |
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| Abstract Rhythms
Posted: 8/25/2009 8:21:29 PM | the smirk in his eyes
made vomit crawl up the back up my throat.
(it was enough to make any woman, with enough experience,want to throw up her lunch)
and those precisely placed sweet nothings and kisses
damn sure packed a mean punch
in the gut
that had been screaming
all along
he was the kind of man that made a woman want to leave
while the definition of his muscles made her panties a little wetter,
the sort of man that you would chase around and try to tame
until you were old enough to know better..
you see, men such as these spring traps between the 'woods'
and somewhere in there a woman can get lost in between the 'shouldnt's and the 'shoulds'...
I'll pass on these words that a friend told me,
so you can't say that I never told you:
If you plan on using a man only for sex,
you NEVER let him hold you. | |
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