Was last night a beginning or an end? The frenetic interlocking of our two willing bodies our intimacy deepened in the conscious decision to forgo a physical barrier between. Not so much a choice as the natural continuation of our selves colliding. Creation absent a tangible product, save the deepening necessity of each to the other. Where do I lie when I lie in your arms? Your bed made temporarily ours, will my stake hold in your sheets continue on or is this afterglow payment of my dividends in full.
Lain bare beneath you, above you, in all the permutations of my entanglement with you there were no nerves. No lingering doubt of worth or beauty. Only burning, searing within my skin, an unyielding need to feel you closer still. Apologies tumbled from my lips for the urgency of my limbs, meant only in the sense of the regrettable hastening of an end to our dance. The most delicious exercise of control we held ourselves a single rushed breath from the edge chasing the next peak in a tumult seemingly without end. Exposed we faced each other lips pressed together frozen in a moment, culmination in a kiss. I felt your smile and you felt my heart race again or, perhaps for the first.
The purity of your gaze is devastating. As though, for the first time ever my best self is seen by eyes that owe me no mercy. The relentless necessity of your finger tips a marvel. How they can touch this body and crave ever more the softness of my skin. Your mouths hunger, how it chases my lips my shoulders my throat bare as the rest of my entirety to you. In the way you see me, touch me, taste me. The unapologetic way you take me devouring me physically, visually, emotionally, mentally. You set the self residing in my head ablaze, exorcising the legion in my mind. Effortless folding into each other, with you a serenity never in my life have I known.
As we enter this new chapter who is it that you will be my lover? Faced with the inevitability of a line now crossed to be crossed and crossed again until it disappears as even fond memories are wont to do. What will you do? The decision passed to you, to decide the continuance of that glorious closeness, perhaps given foolishly? The truth of my questioning evidenced in the leveraging of my intimate self for your promise, an implication of a promise of a maybe one day love. In suspension I wait mid breath for the moment your text message comes. Innocuous, the low hum of plastic and metal signals a renewed connection. I breathe. Tenuous brevity afforded by the cruel miser, ambition. In moments left on the altar of academia you, a physical manifestation of a dream, fade just beyond my ability to fathom the reality of we.
You crossed my boundary, breathing life and vitality into my hollowed beauty. Is yours the natural charm of a practiced seduction or the genuine appreciation of my oneness ended finally perhaps by your presence? When I gave into you, gave myself to you, shared with you if only in risk the most intimate of physical acts, that of creation, which warmth I wonder did you feel. Was it the very depth of my innocent vulnerability exposed to your hunger that you felt or simply one more supplication to physical desire? In these aching moments of uncertainty, questioning of my place in the pantheon of your life I wonder what have I lost in losing myself in you. Or indeed what have I gained.
Projection of my negative sense of self worth on my relative worth to you anathema to the forward motion I so wholly crave. Raw and fresh it corrodes, an acid splash burn on our memories particularly those yet to be made. Few and new those moments of bliss the delight of your body, your voice, your scent somehow you have become tainted by my natural enemy, myself. By the insecurity I will never let you see. Demons tearing at my phantom control. The ephemeral veil with which I conceal that part of myself I wish to annex to a self no longer standing. I see them in my eyes and hear them in the very tremor in my voice. They live in the spaces between my breaths when the persistent roar of self doubt overcomes all else.
I want to love you free of them, for so long the most defining part of my private self. I want to be able to trust myself in your absence, to love myself as perhaps you do or one day will. The possibility for so much before me, perpetually it is in jeopardy for my inability to separate the self and society in my head from the one around me. An entire world warped by one warped image. Such horrors hide in the beauty others see. A world of darkness binding torturously winding the perception of all that I am into a tangled knot of expectation and emotion aimed decidedly in the most self destructive direction. More so even than the grace I have found in your smile, I need to heal myself. In the ashen rebirth of the Beth that has never yet been, perhaps, I’ll find peace.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Deviant
I want to taste your pain
Fill my mouth with the sound of your scream
Your every breath my considered generosity
Submit to me
Deviant
Controlling you entirely
Freedom relinquished you exist in my commands
Break for me
Break into me
Tear through all that separates us
Your purest freedom my slavery
Bound to you
I live in your prostration
Seal my kiss with the warmth of you blood
Surrender your boundaries to my discretion
Trust me to pull you back from the brink
One tantalizing kiss from destruction
Fill my mouth with the sound of your scream
Your every breath my considered generosity
Submit to me
Deviant
Controlling you entirely
Freedom relinquished you exist in my commands
Break for me
Break into me
Tear through all that separates us
Your purest freedom my slavery
Bound to you
I live in your prostration
Seal my kiss with the warmth of you blood
Surrender your boundaries to my discretion
Trust me to pull you back from the brink
One tantalizing kiss from destruction
Prowl
Addicted to the thrill of new lips
Unwrapping a body whose curves lay waiting to be known
I crave your beauty as yet untasted
My fingertips long for the planes of your face
The possibility your legs are meant to be tangled with mine
Hastening the pressing of my body to yours
Encased in the cool smooth of satin sheets
The breathless sound of your culmination in my mouth
Clinging desperately to my shoulders
The way you pull me to you
Needing to possess all of my self
Have me selfishly as I will have you
Surrender to me
Brand me with your kiss
Unwrapping a body whose curves lay waiting to be known
I crave your beauty as yet untasted
My fingertips long for the planes of your face
The possibility your legs are meant to be tangled with mine
Hastening the pressing of my body to yours
Encased in the cool smooth of satin sheets
The breathless sound of your culmination in my mouth
Clinging desperately to my shoulders
The way you pull me to you
Needing to possess all of my self
Have me selfishly as I will have you
Surrender to me
Brand me with your kiss
Friday, January 14, 2011
tattoos
Hip:
I will not die an unlived life. I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire. I choose to inhabit my days, allowing my living to open me. I choose to risk my significance.
Dream as though you'll live forever (35)
Live as though you'll die today RLD (31)
I would rather be a superb meteor, my every atom magnificently aglow, than a permanent planet. The proper function of man is to live, not simply exist. I’ll not waste my days trying to prolong them.
Neck:
Memento Mori
10-9-10
phoenix icarus
what dreams may come
I will not die an unlived life. I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire. I choose to inhabit my days, allowing my living to open me. I choose to risk my significance.
Dream as though you'll live forever (35)
Live as though you'll die today RLD (31)
I would rather be a superb meteor, my every atom magnificently aglow, than a permanent planet. The proper function of man is to live, not simply exist. I’ll not waste my days trying to prolong them.
Neck:
Memento Mori
10-9-10
phoenix icarus
what dreams may come
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Yemassa
Speeding down a washed out expanse of highway the monotony of road travel was overwhelming. Any sense of adventure which formerly imbued long road excursions with daring vitality had slowly been sapped by the bright fluorescence of exclamation mark advertisements. The once open and wild road tamed by the regularity of service stations offering every comfort of home even that staple of yuppie sustenance- Starbucks. Gone was the highway romanticized throughout history as a proving ground for the brave and the dastardly, imperceptible beneath the veneer of utter safety was the palpable sense of danger omnipresent in the work of Hunter S. Thompson. Journeying back north through Columbia South Carolina, I-95 though spotted gracefully with wild Spanish moss covered palms was simply one more stretch of road, suggesting no more or less than the 753 miles of road surface still separating our car from home. No longer calling to the wanderlust traveler, these open stretches of road, diminished, were simply a conveyance.
The unending diversity of and burgeoning industry in “entertainment” read diversionary devices deemed essential on long car rides is a testament to how utterly road trips have been robbed of their wonder. Cell phones, televisions, DVD players, stereo systems, e-book readers, even the tiny laptop which this digression comes to you courtesy of. So homogenized has this country become that simply driving a reasonably direct route from top to bottom one would hardly notice the difference from one state to the next save a change in external temperature, subtle changes of flora, and that enemy the passage of time.
A new passion for photography left me poised eagerly in the front passenger seat, digital camera in hand ready for inspiration to strike at any moment. After the first 4 hours of car travel along this highway, inspiration was still conspicuously absent. Certainly, there were the occasional pictures of interesting trees or amusing vehicles cohabitating on the asphalt with us for brief stretches of faded pavement. Nothing though, in the nearly 400 elapsed miles suggested anything more than what it superficially was. Simply, in those 400 miles of open road through Florida and Georgia there had been nothing to marvel at, not a single recognizable instance of wonder.
As though afflicted by a wasting disease not only had the road lost its wonder, so too was the brilliance of the surrounding scenery being diminished. Trees planted in neat rows, shoulders mowed to exacting standards. In a word the whole affair had become rather, neat, a rather unnatural state of affairs for nature. As with most things in the United States, even the highway had become sanitized and packaged for safe consumption. Endless safety indications and warning signs, instructing drivers on the acceptable method for handling even the most imperceptibly inclement of weather or other road conditions. Miles of warning for a 300 yard stretch of construction. Oranges and yellows found not in lurid flora at sunset but rather industrial tape and signage. All the natural bits of nature around the road neatly manicured and boxed for convenience.
By the time you reach your fifth hour on the road the difference in perception between youth and adulthood is presented in startling clarity. Passing cars conveying children along these same roads to their eagerly anticipated destinations, their faces pressed to the car windows pointing excitedly at cars, trees, clouds, they marvel at things which I were I not determined to locate inspiration on these newly desolate passage ways would otherwise have missed. How easy it is for that sense of wonder to slip quietly away replaced by a vacuous emptiness demanding constant instant gratification.
Staring somewhat dejectedly out the window exits flew past, names of towns I will probably never visit occupying no more space in my mind than the individual blades of grass blurred into an undulating sea of Kelly green outside the tinted windows. Music and cold air blast through the car, forcibly rousing the numbed minds of those passengers idly speeding towards a destination still hours away. One exit looking like the next, mile markers the only indication that we weren’t driving on a soundstage in front of a looped reel of generic US highway scenery. The searing heat of late July in the deep south buffered effectively by the cool leather interior and superior air conditioning of the car. Circulated air was devoid not only of the heat and humidity hanging in the air just outside the windows but also the smells of the trees and the tangible damp of late summer afternoons. Our car could literally be plucked from the road surface and dropped at any other point on this road with no immediate difference to the passengers, done fast enough it’s likely we wouldn’t even notice.
Settling into that forced uncomfortable sleep of long road trips I braced my forehead against the cool of the window angling my body to tease the maximum of physical comfort from the plush leather seat. My vision was temporarily obscured by the vulgar institutional green of highway signage. Settling into the empty sleep of an idling mind, I looked out the window one last time before unconsciousness claimed me. Exit 43 Yemassa and Hampton. As though a revelation in reflective green, the sight behind the sign evoked, feeling. Curiosity for the first time in over 400 miles. An unassuming turn off of an unassuming stretch of highway somehow though it was something more than that. Bordered by a wall of rich evergreen trees, a bend in the road just feet after the turnoff robbed passersby of even a glimpse at what lay beyond. I wanted to know, what lay beyond that second turn. What was in Yemassa? Was it perhaps a sleepy little town? Something out of time where lazy southern streams drew crowds of children equipped only with their imaginations ready to explore the seven seas without the assistance of videogames or television programs laden with CGI.
The growing shadows of evergreens draped languorously across the black asphalt inviting as the silk sheets of a lovers bed daring you to explore what lay beneath. As quickly as it captivated, it was gone. A brief moment in time in which the possibility of surprise stirred in me emotion, the genuine desire to know what lay beyond those trees just out of sight. In that moment the persistent synthetic backing track of the pop music faded succumbing to the laughter of the children that might live just beyond that impenetrable wall of green. The cold blasts of dry odorless air replaced by the possibility of what the air in Yemassa might smell like, the way it would feel enveloping me in thick humidity heavy with the smell of trees and grass.
Now, two hundred miles past that accidental inspiration the lingering scent of what those trees may have smelled like colors my perception of the smell inside the car. A hint of dewy warmth making the sun glinting off the windshield evoke thoughts of what it would be like to sit by that maybe stream babbling softly in accompaniment to those maybe children imagining wonder into their world. Closing my eyes not in idle mindless unconsciousness but lost in a dream of a town I’ll never see. The maybe of what couldn’t be seen beyond those trees imagined into a million permutations of a town laying sleepily in South Carolina waiting to be discovered by someone resisting their rush.
One late summer afternoon, that person will be me. It will be the shadow of my car blazing a dark stripe though the shadow of those trees, windows rolled down inhaling the reality of that imagined air. Maybe though, never seeing Yemassa would be best. The infinite potentials of that maybe town brought home the realization that simply imagining wonder into the world is where that innocent enthusiasm in children comes from. Bounded only by the constraints of imagination, exit 43 to Yemassa breathed renewed life into an imagination that had become so consumed with reality that the surreal, the possibility of even the most beautiful maybes was lost. Luckily though, on one sleepy southern afternoon at the end of July, an unassuming turn off of an unassuming stretch of highway- exit 43 to Yemassa- imagined my imagination back into existence.
The unending diversity of and burgeoning industry in “entertainment” read diversionary devices deemed essential on long car rides is a testament to how utterly road trips have been robbed of their wonder. Cell phones, televisions, DVD players, stereo systems, e-book readers, even the tiny laptop which this digression comes to you courtesy of. So homogenized has this country become that simply driving a reasonably direct route from top to bottom one would hardly notice the difference from one state to the next save a change in external temperature, subtle changes of flora, and that enemy the passage of time.
A new passion for photography left me poised eagerly in the front passenger seat, digital camera in hand ready for inspiration to strike at any moment. After the first 4 hours of car travel along this highway, inspiration was still conspicuously absent. Certainly, there were the occasional pictures of interesting trees or amusing vehicles cohabitating on the asphalt with us for brief stretches of faded pavement. Nothing though, in the nearly 400 elapsed miles suggested anything more than what it superficially was. Simply, in those 400 miles of open road through Florida and Georgia there had been nothing to marvel at, not a single recognizable instance of wonder.
As though afflicted by a wasting disease not only had the road lost its wonder, so too was the brilliance of the surrounding scenery being diminished. Trees planted in neat rows, shoulders mowed to exacting standards. In a word the whole affair had become rather, neat, a rather unnatural state of affairs for nature. As with most things in the United States, even the highway had become sanitized and packaged for safe consumption. Endless safety indications and warning signs, instructing drivers on the acceptable method for handling even the most imperceptibly inclement of weather or other road conditions. Miles of warning for a 300 yard stretch of construction. Oranges and yellows found not in lurid flora at sunset but rather industrial tape and signage. All the natural bits of nature around the road neatly manicured and boxed for convenience.
By the time you reach your fifth hour on the road the difference in perception between youth and adulthood is presented in startling clarity. Passing cars conveying children along these same roads to their eagerly anticipated destinations, their faces pressed to the car windows pointing excitedly at cars, trees, clouds, they marvel at things which I were I not determined to locate inspiration on these newly desolate passage ways would otherwise have missed. How easy it is for that sense of wonder to slip quietly away replaced by a vacuous emptiness demanding constant instant gratification.
Staring somewhat dejectedly out the window exits flew past, names of towns I will probably never visit occupying no more space in my mind than the individual blades of grass blurred into an undulating sea of Kelly green outside the tinted windows. Music and cold air blast through the car, forcibly rousing the numbed minds of those passengers idly speeding towards a destination still hours away. One exit looking like the next, mile markers the only indication that we weren’t driving on a soundstage in front of a looped reel of generic US highway scenery. The searing heat of late July in the deep south buffered effectively by the cool leather interior and superior air conditioning of the car. Circulated air was devoid not only of the heat and humidity hanging in the air just outside the windows but also the smells of the trees and the tangible damp of late summer afternoons. Our car could literally be plucked from the road surface and dropped at any other point on this road with no immediate difference to the passengers, done fast enough it’s likely we wouldn’t even notice.
Settling into that forced uncomfortable sleep of long road trips I braced my forehead against the cool of the window angling my body to tease the maximum of physical comfort from the plush leather seat. My vision was temporarily obscured by the vulgar institutional green of highway signage. Settling into the empty sleep of an idling mind, I looked out the window one last time before unconsciousness claimed me. Exit 43 Yemassa and Hampton. As though a revelation in reflective green, the sight behind the sign evoked, feeling. Curiosity for the first time in over 400 miles. An unassuming turn off of an unassuming stretch of highway somehow though it was something more than that. Bordered by a wall of rich evergreen trees, a bend in the road just feet after the turnoff robbed passersby of even a glimpse at what lay beyond. I wanted to know, what lay beyond that second turn. What was in Yemassa? Was it perhaps a sleepy little town? Something out of time where lazy southern streams drew crowds of children equipped only with their imaginations ready to explore the seven seas without the assistance of videogames or television programs laden with CGI.
The growing shadows of evergreens draped languorously across the black asphalt inviting as the silk sheets of a lovers bed daring you to explore what lay beneath. As quickly as it captivated, it was gone. A brief moment in time in which the possibility of surprise stirred in me emotion, the genuine desire to know what lay beyond those trees just out of sight. In that moment the persistent synthetic backing track of the pop music faded succumbing to the laughter of the children that might live just beyond that impenetrable wall of green. The cold blasts of dry odorless air replaced by the possibility of what the air in Yemassa might smell like, the way it would feel enveloping me in thick humidity heavy with the smell of trees and grass.
Now, two hundred miles past that accidental inspiration the lingering scent of what those trees may have smelled like colors my perception of the smell inside the car. A hint of dewy warmth making the sun glinting off the windshield evoke thoughts of what it would be like to sit by that maybe stream babbling softly in accompaniment to those maybe children imagining wonder into their world. Closing my eyes not in idle mindless unconsciousness but lost in a dream of a town I’ll never see. The maybe of what couldn’t be seen beyond those trees imagined into a million permutations of a town laying sleepily in South Carolina waiting to be discovered by someone resisting their rush.
One late summer afternoon, that person will be me. It will be the shadow of my car blazing a dark stripe though the shadow of those trees, windows rolled down inhaling the reality of that imagined air. Maybe though, never seeing Yemassa would be best. The infinite potentials of that maybe town brought home the realization that simply imagining wonder into the world is where that innocent enthusiasm in children comes from. Bounded only by the constraints of imagination, exit 43 to Yemassa breathed renewed life into an imagination that had become so consumed with reality that the surreal, the possibility of even the most beautiful maybes was lost. Luckily though, on one sleepy southern afternoon at the end of July, an unassuming turn off of an unassuming stretch of highway- exit 43 to Yemassa- imagined my imagination back into existence.
Endlessly
Endlessly I stepped down
Off of the last step and into the sea
An impressionists painting of calming dark
Surround me
Hues unimagined in the color composed of them all
The cold reality of truth permeating my entirety
Weightlessly falling away from the light
Suspend me
Held eternally in the dusk
Arms reaching for the sun in surrender
Acceptant of this my fate
End me
Swaddled in the caress of the current
Pulling me deeper and farther from my last act
The step repeated infinitely in my last moment
See me
A snowflake ghost gleaming fair in the dark
Dancing one last dizzying waltz to extinction
Eyes locked fatally on a dream
Off of the last step and into the sea
An impressionists painting of calming dark
Surround me
Hues unimagined in the color composed of them all
The cold reality of truth permeating my entirety
Weightlessly falling away from the light
Suspend me
Held eternally in the dusk
Arms reaching for the sun in surrender
Acceptant of this my fate
End me
Swaddled in the caress of the current
Pulling me deeper and farther from my last act
The step repeated infinitely in my last moment
See me
A snowflake ghost gleaming fair in the dark
Dancing one last dizzying waltz to extinction
Eyes locked fatally on a dream
Faithfully Faithless
Do they still burn you for the blasphemy of accepting the comfort of ignorance
Giving in to the desire to fulfill and satisfy the tangibility of existence
Living exclusively for a now and not a next
Devouring the full weight of experience as though a souls sole sustenance in the desert
Is a God that would punish a doomed being’s selfishness worth worship
Comparatively
Sightless, soundless, speechless
We the very definition of transience presented with Eden
Expected to serve eternal for the privilege
From what place of fear is this notion of creation born
What perverse irony pressures so unending a search for the machinations behind miracles
We quest for Heaven only to dismantle it molecule by molecule
Pursuing blindly yet wholly dismissive of the singular instance which defies yet defines science
The new priesthood one of nonbelievers happy to simply be without explanation
Cathedrals built to self importance dwarf those built to the vengeful god and gods of old
Is that what happens when salvation is “his “ and “his” alone to grant
When our instant of awareness in forever is spent subservient to the potential of a potentially absentee parent
Disbelief the only religious fervor left
Giving in to the desire to fulfill and satisfy the tangibility of existence
Living exclusively for a now and not a next
Devouring the full weight of experience as though a souls sole sustenance in the desert
Is a God that would punish a doomed being’s selfishness worth worship
Comparatively
Sightless, soundless, speechless
We the very definition of transience presented with Eden
Expected to serve eternal for the privilege
From what place of fear is this notion of creation born
What perverse irony pressures so unending a search for the machinations behind miracles
We quest for Heaven only to dismantle it molecule by molecule
Pursuing blindly yet wholly dismissive of the singular instance which defies yet defines science
The new priesthood one of nonbelievers happy to simply be without explanation
Cathedrals built to self importance dwarf those built to the vengeful god and gods of old
Is that what happens when salvation is “his “ and “his” alone to grant
When our instant of awareness in forever is spent subservient to the potential of a potentially absentee parent
Disbelief the only religious fervor left
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