They are dried and hardened it is as I walk and the sun burns the pavement I am safe She moves with my every step breathing down my back like a rainforest monsoon wild like carnivorous beasts Her tongue is swollen with red pulp I strive to taste it bring me inside I call back to where I stand I do not want to go back I want this lust, this skin I want this skin it is strong like hide and sorrow it is dark and safe I am an animal a predator and I lurk along the sun burned pavement upon the pads of my dried and hardened feet I am an animal I cry and it is the murderous scream I hear at night It is the witnessing decree of my bashful savioress who dances like a crocadile tail and severs like his bull jaws She makes me bleed I open my arms
I have been here before. I state this because it is a warning. There must never be a soul to venture where I have gone, but this is too simple to comprehend in its complexity. I had a moment when I was not under the illusion enough to know better. Though now, alas… …my story.
He entered the dwelling with footsteps of blood behind him. The dark veiled woman leaned snorting and hunchbacked out the door, in order to escort his entrance, though for some reason, he was hesitant. Her hand grabbed his cloak and pulled him forward until he was inside. It was wet. He was alone. He was a traveler and did not know where he was. Fortunately the inn was warm, however the beastial woman was not. He did not need to feel this atmosphere, because it blatantly existed. He despised it because of its text-book quality. All the illusions were so evident, he too readily disregarded them, and ultimately, he concluded their lack of worth in his realm of being. In fact, they were quite the contrary.
Miss Daviston moved trudgingly toward the desk with her multi-layered apparel, with a voice like a sob for him, about him, in contempt of his presence this early in the morning. It was 3:00am. The blood dripped lethargically to the floor. He felt faint. And the man who gazed from the conservatory doorway behind him observed his every move. He was unaware of the presence of this man. Alas, he was in. He went to his room. He sat down with his notebook and pen and tried to write. Though, something was distracting him. He realized that he was writing nothing that pertained to him, and rather it was a build up of nothing to come. This sort of experience never perturbed him. He was the master… …supposedly…
The pen was put down. The writer could say no more. The actor could speak no more. The worthwhile human being had no reason to exist. that was all. the book was written.
Sitting mostly alone she hears the music bearing the difference as a sonorous echoing in her spirit her anguish boasts a heavy chime her sorrow slips a delicate hum as her endurance canters like a memory Then she begins to beg for mercy, for peace for freedom for relief for release for warmth for help to survive however mostly in her spirit like a memory unwanting mostly alone
I was invited to be a guest blogger at The Writers Chatroom. My contribution is about my approach to writing poetry. If anyone is interested in reading it, here is the link http://writerschatroom.blogspot.com/
The Writers Chatroom has been a valuable resource to me. The chat hours are: every Wednesday from 8pm – 10pm EST they hold a topic chat. Every Sunday 7pm – 9pm EST they have a guest chat. I have learned more about the writing business in the few months that I have been going there, than I’ve learned in all the years I’ve been writing. It’s also great to be part of a supportive writing community. They have a blog (obviously) and a forum.
Here are some photos of the New England stone walls from when I recently went hiking. The stone walls of New England were built mostly from between 1750 – 1850. These walls were likely built by farmers to keep livestock in, rather than to keep people out. In New England, the railroad through Concord was built a year before Thoreau settled himself at Walden, and about 30 years before the Transcontinental railroad. New England farmers had opportunity with the railroad to get product such as wool to the cities. That said, anyone who lives in New England may take these walls for granted because they are everywhere, on private property, by roadsides, on hiking trails. Any historians out there can contribute more detail in the comments if you like. I’m just a poet who values ghosts of the past and thinks these walls are cool.
I know that man the small man wants to feel big and tries to make me smaller but he has no power over me, he has no control over mine, he has nothing but my disdain as I am the target of his pain he knows less than me as I know how to destroy him in order to create myself becoming bigger bigger than him leaving him small the man with nothing with no hope with nothing at all
Morrighan at http://enchantedsolitaire.com/ has nominated me for the Very Inspiring Blogger Award! Thank you so much, I’m honored that you thought of me to receive this award!
The rules are to thank and link back to the blogger that has nominated you. Post the award logo to your blog. Write a post on the nomination and nominate 15 other very inspiring bloggers. Notify them and then tell 7 things about yourself.
Thanks again Morrighan!!! http://enchantedsolitaire.com/
Ok here goes, what more can I say about me hmmm…
1. The first book I ever wrote was when I was four years old and it was about Scooby Doo’s and Shaggy’s friendship.
2. I’ve been on a paleontological dig in Mexico.
3. I’ve performed at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival.
4. Here’s a crazy one, but true: I went to the Bahamas when I was 17 and these two foreign guys wanted to take nude photos of me but I ‘escaped.’
5. I’ve seen ghosts and felt their presences.
6. Three amazing New Year’s were Boston Harbor, Times Square, St Augustine Beach.
7. Santa Claus still brings me a Christmas Stocking every year.
My nominees are:
I want your sweetness on my tongue and the world behind our door goings on encircling us as we lose ourselves within each other you make me feel dirty you turn me wild when I touch your skin I burn when I feel your flesh against mine I ache and when I kiss your lips I know you I know you are my love
This post is in participation with Romantic Monday at http://edwardhotspur.wordpress.com/
This post is also written in response to a request by an anonymous reader, who wanted me to write about “sweet, dirty love”