To be in love with someone from the beginning you are like glued to the idea of capitulation, this action of surrendering your life to another. You become experimental, a lab technician. Wracking her body with a fine tooth comb. Smelling her underarms like they were flowers, their musk drives you like a car with the gas pedal pushed to the floor. You have no where to go but to while away an afternoon. Taste this place and you discover that taste and smell can combine in ways that leave you feeling delirious. Eyes are closed, clenched like a fist; eyes are opened but see nothing. Feelings and sensations have replaced sight now abetted by smell and taste. But the eyes want to look, so you turn her this way and that. But your eyes find the most delight while looking into hers like looking into some deep well they stare back at you. It is you doing to her what you please. Make her do this and that. She is a rag doll to be used. To treat her otherwise leaves her limpid. She likes to be ridden roughshod. The sting of your hand on her behind compares little with the exertion you can apply to her breast. This is where you hold and squeeze tighter than you ever thought a human could possible take she likes it even more tighter. Watch out this can make you loose your mind. Slow things down by cuddling up beside her and gently suck on each nipple only to throw her on her side and to take her from behind though with her thigh up in a way that allows to penetrate deeper all the while you can hold tight to those lobes of flesh depended by those plug like nipples. Hit it hard and continue hitting it with the pounding force of your hips driving into her rump. Claw her back. Bite her shoulders. Use your tongue like a barber stropping his knife. Taste her skin. Smell her musk. Fuck her hole. It’s that simple use your prodder to drive your point home. Then roll her over and flatten your body to hers with her now opening her thighs even more than before you are now being invited to luxuriate in her juices. Kiss her, this is where you kiss her with your mouth opening up like a cargo plane with your tongue jumping out to land only to be shoved around by her tongue. Become intoxicated by her saliva, drink her. Become drunk with her water that that gulleys down your throat.
If the mind cannot find the source of its discontent, then eventually this feeling fades.
The grass will be cut. Trees trimmed. With me amid the floating dreams of butterflies this late in summer they are fully alive in my garden, especially the monarch owing to the heavy transmigration of the milkweed scattered all about our property.
Is writing arbitrary at best, saying it is this when maybe other people think it is that. To be understood is an illusion; misunderstanding is more the norm. To be misunderstood in writing out your thoughts is a reflection of your inability to express your desired point. Why would you read me when to write my thoughts seems like listening at the door? It really matters little that I have nothing to say; what matters is how I say this nothing. I force people either to read on or move on, or are there other avenues such as people whom just tag alone for the ride much like thumbing: where the truck stops and you jump in the back amid people whom speak not your tongue but you sit and feel connected because you all share the same thrill of feeling the truck as it lurches forward taking each of you further down the road.
How far you going? To the next town? Hop in along side inside this side west side east side edge wise.
Smiling with lips that smack on gum, lips pinkly wetted with a darting tongue. Hand to thigh; thigh to hand. Like a spider her eyes eye her prey. Whom has trapped whom. Who are you? Are you willing? Much obliged at your willingness. Coupled like two dogs in heat. Chained like two escape convicts, ankle to ankle. Lubed like a freshly greased axle. The long, drawn out kiss. The hand touching the soft underbelly of her thigh. Three things come to mind: sucking, fucking and lodging; the mouth sucks, the pussy is fucked and the anus holds the penis as the hand diddles the clit.
Circling the sky with her finger, he reads into her missive that the new moon is at hand.
Some months back in time, meaning so far away I feel a disconnect with a feeling that I no longer feel God in my life.
What dose that mean to feel God? For me, it means believing he/she/it is there in that doubt takes a backseat.
Is it a matter of convenience that we believe in God, even a luxury? I must push aside these questions because first one thinks something and that thought creates a feeling. In my case, I thought something that discredited my former belief in God and for the life of me at this moment I cannot remember that thought but the feeling created by that thought is vibrating at a low level frequency that disturbs me by its humming.
I am not complex in that I have very little recall: hence the need to write, to record; of necessity I write: it necessitates my existence. It’s like I have no inkling where my mind was yesterday: moods so dominate me to the point that I move through a fog. But for the insight that I gain by reading, I would have off-ted myself years ago. Me alone is not enough to sustain me. I seek out higher minds, writers mainly. One such new writer is the late Peter Matthiessen. Why I never read him before now is any bodies guess. But read him I will because he is conservationist and a naturalist and writer of both fiction and non-fiction with a abiding devoutness to things pertaining to Zen.
Stand still like a humming bird hovering over a flower but inside the flower the light vibrates.
Forget forsaken thoughts: remember the time that you didn’t remember.
Originality craves attention by being unoriginal.
What are the origins of your thoughts: whence comes this moment?
How do you decide what to do, where to go: what are your prompts?
It is easier to find the right words rather than writing what you think.
When you feel conflict with someone what dose that say about you?
What is conflict but a way to get to know yourself: say hello to the asshole within, he is such a rude prick or a silly cunt.
Shy of breathing we should do little else but because we have this capacity to express with pick our noses and wait. We never speak about what it means to be ourselves because who we are is undecided.
Writing is my way to find solace otherwise my thoughts are hateful. I rather not think with the voices in my head: I would rather make contact with the unknown revealing itself in print.
A continued dialogue with myself has evolved, an altered ego that stamps out this post. It’s not real, the exchange is arbitrary.
You live long enough you get to see the full show but you can’t leave the theater no matter how bad the movie because it’s your life.
There are moments which involve you in acts that (how would you finish this sentence: I couldn’t, some how i could not find any real meaning in continuing it; that happens, a sentence will evolve and because it has set up a thought, I usually follow through working to make sense of what it may come to mean).
Multiple threads to pick from, pick one that feels real and write where it leads. In some way I follow after what I write. There seems to be a higher order of thinking. I could be wrong. To even get this far has been a great effort because so much of what I think my writing mind edits out as cliche ridden.
It’s like I am unable to ever again to write like I had somewhere to go, it’s like that part of me has been bruised through neglect.
I look back on my short stories and I think I can no longer summon that illusion that sustained me to write those stories.
And i lack real imagination to create something otherwise than what I live; no not so much imagination, but I lack the capacity to put it all together into something coherent. I dabble in writing like others dabble with pain pills, not knowing nor believing that this veritably leads to heroin. What is heroin, but a vainglorious way to live. I am addicted to writing.
You to have to radicalize your thoughts around change, you have to mount an offensive against what is destroying you.
One has to see the world with new eyes.
Children see, we look. You look at me but you do not see me. You look for what you want and make my image conform to your prejudices, your predisposition.
Silence like a wave floods his being, his skull rings with its deafening sound.
Often, I wonder while in the throws of sweet connubial bliss whether other men share what I experience: a woman whom allows me to have my way when I want it whenever no matter the circumstances. She accepts me on my terms. It’s like we are solely mated to share bed time. I like it first thing in the morning, beginning the day with that tingling sensation, that proverbial carrot called her mouth following by the opening of her legs much like going from the hot springs to the cold water back and forth with a lot of clawing and butting and biting and chewing and licking.
With me the dominator, she not moving but moved by my propulsions; her willing to do what I want. Always edging me closer with me stopping at the gleaning, at the first frosting that crowns my tip.
Tauntingly close she brings me to the brink until I have to snatch it out of her mouth to save off coming; that would totally ruin it for me, a man whom feels coming is a moral conundrum wherein the ethics are too short sighted though come I do but only after weeks of continual sucking and fucking where some days are full on throughout the whole day. Every hole provides a different release when I do come. But I think I like coming in her mouth best, but there are time of coitus when coming seems chemical, that her juices instigated the releasing of my jisim. She says at times mine is thick, do I want such details.
With my woman she likes my whole hand up inside her nothing gets he juices going more than with we 69. These times are the best, more mutual because she is getting her fill; these elongated forays can last hours with her pleasure being so close at hand; which gives me licenses to take full range of her other orifices.
The fun becomes extending the act because she gets to a point where she wants to come, wants to diddle herself into climaxing which ends it for a moment. I let her get so far then I turn her over take her the full range of motion then let her again take it so far then I let her get on top with her hips becoming locomtive and there before me those jangling nipples that can take the full grip of my hand, that in itself makes me nearly come that she can take me pressing her nipples into the wall and again bringing her to the brink only to change positions until I ask her how would she like to finish; which hole should I be?
I have come to see forgiveness as a process, a certain way to live: a rapprochement with being.
Hate is a war of attrition.
Cause and effect when detected can help resolve these age old wounds. Often we live without connecting the dots.