I’m a lady. What? You can’t be surprised
despite all my utterings so sexualised on my knees looking up with my big blowjob eyes romanticised calling me slutty whilst I’m down on all fours just because my number is higher than yours Sure let’s just ignore my intellect and complexity my power, my desperately collectively nonsensically empathically bonhomie as you joke how my vagina must be a Facebook check in location folks Because I like sex with girls and I like sex with boys and you can’t fathom out how to use all my toys so you utter vile words and call me harsh names aims my shame so high in the sky that the clouds know your game but tomorrow you’ll beg me to do it again Why can’t I be both; dichotomous alignment of pleasure and passion and moral refinement.
2 Comments
I have the flu
and I know not what to do with my head so fuzzy, so blue needing to cozy up and eat chicken noo- dle soup, wrapped in blankets and tissues ACHOO "Bless you" Bless me? Fuck you! You gave this to me, didn't you? Bring me tea and crumpets and accrue brownie points. Oh, brownies ... those too. And let me sit and stew thinking of the countersue I'll put you through for this awful state you got me into. I’m gathering rain drops for my rain collection
to counteract the puddles of disaffection Inescapable wetness of reflection, filling up this jar whilst gusting winds push my soul further afar An outlook so bizarre, miniscule little mar A need to push the clouds above the plethora of stars And when I have enough to fill my stormy little sea you may row row row, the fuck away from me. He nods towards my clothes and murmurs, “take them off”.
His voice affects me with such complete avidity that I realise I can no longer hide my fascination with this man. He has me utterly and entirely captivated and the need to please him, desire him, is immeasurable. I pull off my tattered, old, Jimi Hendrix t-shirt, my soft nipples hardening in the cold air, and slip out of my jeans and trainers before instinctively holding my hands over my breasts, the heat between my legs. He gently shakes his head, that wry smile of his flirting with my bare skin, and I slowly lower my hands, exposing myself in a way that creates a boundless fervour. The way he looks at me. Fuck, I feel like a queen. A sexy motherfucking queen. He watches as I slowly walk toward him, no longer afraid of my own nakedness, no longer afraid of how deeply I want him within me, and his eyes lazily roam from the tuft of hair between my legs, to my breasts, to my lips. I have to stand on my tiptoes to graze my teeth against his jawline, and fuck he tastes good. I can smell the beer on his breath and taste the man on his skin and when he finally pushes his lips against mine, rough and unyielding, I start to get off on the semi-drunk sensation. I don’t require coffee to get me through the workday; I have a perfectly functioning brain and a healthy kick of motivation. I can hit a spreadsheet at full speed, fuelled only by decaf.
And I don’t adhere to coffee snobbery by avoiding instant and spending hours playing with my beverage gadgetry with sanctimonious pontification. I don’t order soy piccolo lattes. Or triple venti half-sweet non-fat caramel macchiatos. Plus, I’m not prone to sugar-shaming, or milk-shaming, or latte-art shaming.. I just like coffee. Normal, everyday coffee. Love it actually. Might even be a little bit IN love with it. The taste, the smell, the variety, the sociability, the delicate powdered flowers floating on the steamed milk.. I’ll make it at home, I’ll drink it in little hipster cafes that provide tasting notes, I’m not even scared to order one at a McDonalds because I know the bean doesn’t need a whimsical process to taste good. And so once upon a time a friendly soul bought me a little coffee machine, nothing overly strenuous and fast enough to feed my habit. It uses little pods; small packets of coffee in whichever flavour, strength and brand you could think of. But I ran out of pods. And yesterday the pods did not arrive with my grocery shopping. And today, Amazon delivered me an entire box filled to the brim with tea pods and chocolate pods. Tea pods and chocolate pods. Tea and chocolate. To make in my coffee machine. Depresso. I can see you, you know.
Well .. I can’t actually SEE you but ‘unique visitor data’ tells me that you are here. 89 of you in the last couple of days in actual fact. But you are all so, so quiet and I’d hate for you to think that we can’t hang out. So if you are reading this, and if you have been unfortunate enough to pop along and read my previous rambles, and if anything I have done has evoked even the tiniest flicker of recognition, then please let me know. I didn’t start this to gain an audience, I’m actually pretty shy. Ok, that’s a lie. But I do spend half of my time as a graceful social butterfly, and the other half hidden within my shell. The point is, I don’t want your undivided attention. I don’t want unnecessary compliments and fake platitudes I just want you. To talk. To tell me how your day is, and whether you have any snow, and what you think about spoken word poetry, and did you really do that last night?!, and magic, and conspiracies, and living, and hobbies, and love, lust, fears, demons, books, eye colours, quirks, kisses, memories, cheesecake, and all of your sins… Let’s hang out. Jx I’m hungover
hungover as fuck “Come out for a drink”, they said “It’ll be great”, they said “Remember when we used to call them Wankered Wednesdays?” they said, they said, they said It’s like a drill, you know reverberating inside my skull Worse than a drill whatever worse than a drill is And I am craving craving c r a v i n g Eggs Benedict with the fluffiest of eggs and lashings of ham the freshest of muffins the decadent drizzle of hollandaise and a healthy pinch of pepper It’s calling to me, begging to be had Perhaps a small serving of hashed potatoes on the side and a gallon Yes, a gallon, of tea Earl Grey, brewed for 180 seconds as the bergamot scent invades my mind and calms the drill But as the dog vomits all over the floor I forget all about food and woefully go about my day. I am not religious.
But I am spiritual. I do not believe in a higher power. But I have a depth of character that allows me to be moved by beauty and mystery. Last night, whilst hurriedly preparing for bed in temperatures that make me gloomy, I heard the distinct sound of an email arriving. I wouldn’t normally read such things before climbing under the covers but there is this gent who .. well, I digress. And so I read it. It happened not to be the longed for goodnight message, and it was far lengthier than I had anticipated. But what I read has resonated with me with such force that even now, the next morning, I feel winded. Regardless of your belief system, this is a rather wonderful story and I encourage you to take a look. For those reading on Facebook, I shan’t copy and paste but will provide a link. ********************************************************************* The Egg – by Andy Weir You were on your way home when you died. It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me. And that’s when you met me. “What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?” “You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words. “There was a… a truck and it was skidding…” “Yup,” I said. “I… I died?” “Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said. You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?” “More or less,” I said. “Are you god?” You asked. “Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.” “My kids… my wife,” you said. “What about them?” “Will they be all right?” “That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.” You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty. “Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.” “Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?” “Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.” “Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,” “All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.” You followed along as we strode through the void. “Where are we going?” “Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.” “So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.” “Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.” I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had. “You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.” “How many times have I been reincarnated, then?” “Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.” “Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?” “Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.” “Where you come from?” You said. “Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.” “Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.” “Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.” “So what’s the point of it all?” “Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?” “Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted. I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.” “You mean mankind? You want us to mature?” “No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.” “Just me? What about everyone else?” “There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.” You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…” “All you. Different incarnations of you.” “Wait. I’m everyone!?” “Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back. “I’m every human being who ever lived?” “Or who will ever live, yes.” “I’m Abraham Lincoln?” “And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added. “I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled. “And you’re the millions he killed.” “I’m Jesus?” “And you’re everyone who followed him.” You fell silent. “Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.” You thought for a long time. “Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?” “Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.” “Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?” “No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.” “So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…” “An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.” And I sent you on your way. ********************************************************************* Are nap dates a thing?
Because that's something I could totally work with.. Coiled together on a sofa in front of a glorious fire encased in an abundence of blankets arms intermingled with chest and muscle with hands clutching firm skin Whilst we talk about our dreams and our demons and atoms and magic and the unknown and intellect and sex and the meaning of life Whilst you gently stroke my hair until sleep entices us.. Poetry is often cinematic; the unseen being just as important as the seen.. imaginations fizzing with curiosity and the desire to solve the unknown. And just like the movie industry, a plethora of poems don't quite make the cut; subjected to a lifetime within a worn notebook, unfinished and unloved. The Unfinished Poem.. I am unraveling
in a cloud of confusion Being pulled by my lust towards your beckoning eyes your words so hypnotic and my need to please you with my sex so chaotic Being pulled by my soul towards an abyss of loneliness a cavern of despair with deep, dark desperation and a sorrowful air. Being pulled by my heart (missing line) in every which direction like a sugar induced child craving attention Being pulled by my head toward reason and closure and I know I'll be fine despite never making love because you're not actually mine There's a mouse in my alleyway
I tell thee no lie It's as dead as a doorknob But it still made me cry I'm not that ashamed of my scampering fear but I do wish a gent was decidedly right here So I knocked on the door of my burly beard neighbour and flutter my lashes as I asked him a favour "Oh do come and help in my dark alleyway and please bring a shovel as it's all quite risqué" And the neighbour did come via his vastly tooled shed with his wink and his smile whilst scratching his head As I led him towards the little dead mouse who was suddenly alive and running right toward my house So I'm moving out today and in with my neighbour as the mouse is now lodging within the fruits of my labour. I'm staring at you across the bar
feeling rather smug You're mine, you see, with all that facial hair and those lickable tattoos that make my knickers wet whilst you consume me with the lust surrounding your cheeky grin as your eyes dart around the dimly lit room looking for I-don't-know-what And I panic as the bells start 10 because I can't get to you through the endless armpits and leery gazes down my too-tight dress making me cover my breasts with my arm 9 Do you notice I'm not next to you? 8 I watch your smile focus on the girl with the pointy tits and the endless fucking hair extensions 7 and you place your hand on the small of her back and whisper "six" into her ear. And I feel hot and sick and jealous and ashamed 5 Do you really not realise I'm missing from your side? 4 when everyone else is moving closer and closer towards one another like a slow motion porno until I can barely see you 3 "Just down the tequila, Josephine", I say to myself. "And look away." Look away 2 watching the way everyone is looking at one another with frenzied lust and drunken passion 1 as they kiss and hold tight with the noise so unbearable And the Happy New Years get stuck in my throat as I watch you kiss her instead of me. |
AuthorThe tornado of roses, with all the chaos and less of the beauty.. Archives
December 2017
|