Thursday, June 30, 2011

Tomorrow

And when the breeze cups my face, I know that I am alive.
If you are reading this, you and I have made it to the other side. Feel the sun in sublime thickness lining your limbs. You are loved.
You are love. Open.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Broken Record


This picture is a representation of my personal life, as I write. It's in shambles. The cloudy skies above, the rain falling down all around me, and I am the kid, in my raincoat, still holding on to my three silver balloons. Please don't fly away.

I am dating once again. I've gone out with a few interesting women--two particularly exceptional women, including the priestess, but I am stuck. Trapped in the regrets, the what ifs of my previous relationship. I am staring at broken glass.

I set fire to the rain for good reason. But the heart is wild, unamenable. It still loves. It refuses to recognize any combination but hers. To follow any sound than that of her voice. To map any pattern than of her body. There is no mold. But then, she knew that already.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Take me to the water

She wants to fuck me as an act of mercy. To lay me out like a meditation. She wants to push inside of me as a spiritual practice.

She is the priestess come to baptise me in shared flood waters. To excise the demons with her hands 'round my waist. She brings her tongue up to my ear to whisper sweet supplications. Incantations. Bless me for I have...over and over.

Behind the altar. In my white dress. She performs a healing. Her mouth to my mouth. I gasp for air brought back into my lungs again.

Thursday, June 09, 2011

paradigm shift

A storm is coming. I can see it savoring and slivering down the way. I sit, on cold floor, patiently waiting for its arrival.

I beg for the rain to take its time with me. Wash it away. The once useful, now un/useable.

I'm holding still for your hands. Come forth. Show yourself with grace.

Friday, June 03, 2011

Lazarus Rize




So this is heartache. The fallen rosebud. The single egg, unhatched. Bruised and bated breath.

It is a miscarriage of the most intimate kind. I open to reveal translucent lining-a stream of hope, love, and lust flowing down my legs. The smell of decay makes me weep.

Before you, I questioned whether I could die. I can. Every new day I wake, I die to you.