My hands, your flesh.

There is a world close to this one. A world of desire, of joy. A world of mending hearts and hot, lusty fucking. This world brims and spills over with our fluids.

My cum. Your cream. Our saliva. Our tears. A trace of blood.

This world is you. You soak my sheets, leaving behind a puddle. It becomes a stain. Meanwhile, I stain you.

My hand-prints are totems. Your new welts and weals and bruises and raw pussy, the hills over the ocean. The scar on your heart a ship breaking the surf. I am a crow, perched, watching the sails.

My cock throbs with: anticipation, a little regret, longing, memory, and dream. It's pulsing time, the beat of that song (that one that came on while we fucked). This world is so close. Is it past or future. My hands, your flesh. And yours, on mine.

Gladiolus

There is a moment in time where the flower comes. Our flowers have bloomed; they are thirsty.

It has struggled through it's many phases. It has rooted. It has sprouted. It has grown tall. It has budded.

Then it is gone.

There are those on the deck that are concerned with names. Its name is gladiolus. In Latin it means sword flower.

But I was often puzzled by the names they drew forth. These names meant next to nothing. We might as well have been talking in first names.

"Phillip's work is the perfect example of expressionism."

"Matthew's is the founder of restrained drawing."

These examples of art by names makes me think of paint by numbers.

I think back to the morning.

A child dances with the uncontrolled gait of the morning. He rolls his foot slightly too much, then not enough. His eyes still encrusted with the remnants of dream, but still skipping about his day. A feat I'd be willing to relearn and pay dearly for its rite. A splash of the heckler hitting water, as a teenager hits a target near a tank filled. The boy skips and sings about nothing that makes sense to rigid old minds.

I watch a small girl's satisfaction of blinking awake into the sun, clutching her fathers khakis. The father's iced latte suddenly spills and splashes the pavement. Afterwards, the bees will sing his praises in his own ear, which he will dismiss with a shake of his fist. The girl will sit near the puddle and watch them dance about and wonder upon the structures and patterns of wings.

This is, of course, our brightest Saturday. The children dance and take us with us. There's so much to learn in every moment. A world not yet of Rothko and Barney. There are always miracles.

And flowers and bees.

Breath

Cities breathe. We lie in the dark. We wait for the dawn, then toil on machines of oil and dust. At dusk, the new day is over. Dusty children play hopscotch in the soot and ash of yet another sunset. Our sun setting, the muted light filters gently through our selfish maze of exhaust and rebar. Stars vanish under the low, yellow hum of sodium. We lie still; waiting for ourselves to be made right by the progress of yet another gadget. The robots will save us, we proclaim. Yet, our rising sun will never break.

Upon a faint and distant dawn, the solemn bells of our forefathers, peel. It awakens some to another day washed in the incense of putrescence. Others lie in bed waiting for life to consume, them, us. We still light our ways with metal and ash. Their acids digest and seep and bother no one in our immediate future; until, skin melts. Our brown wastes stretching autumn leaves into summer. Out of sight out of mind. We can't know, refuse to think, what our ancestors would think of our machines of gloom.

One day our children will condemn us to our fate. Our scales always balanced in our sight. Yet, distance proves our eyes askew.

“But,” we say in unison, “we recycled.”

How fucking noble?

departure

I'm trying to put the words right.
I don't know if I can.

You have set my world alight.
I want you to understand.

Turmoil lies beneath a surface, calm.
As if I were a summer sea.

On roads our tires become a psalm.
They sing of you to me.

Yet of the dark,
in my heart past,
there is another tale.

Inside it's marked,
shattered glass,
from my sullen trail.

Sometimes it's the road that takes,
our smile from our lips.

When time is ours it's me you slake.
I wonder where it slips.

waiting...

A hand rests lightly on the bottom of the leather wrapped steering wheel. Reclined in a bucket seat, he sits waiting, sunglasses at night covering half-closed lids. The soft but persistent sound of rain, washes out the sounds of the city. He waits with the radio turned down, loud enough only to mark the passage of time. His cock, the only thing not torpid. It strains against the zipper of his jeans. Slowly and painfully his stiffening shaft bends sharply back upon it self. He reaches beneath his boxers and corrects his course.

Relaxed again, he half-dreams of the woman for whom he waits. His cock swells with every reminisce. Kissing the freckles on her back. The curve of her shoulder into neck. The smell of her pussy, moistening. The firm but gentle stroke of her hand on his tumescence. Her smile as they fall asleep.

A pair of bright red shoes appears on the stairs in the distance. Stalking clad legs appear with the next step. A red dress and then a soft face appear from the stairwell in the near-distance, with the next steps. He draws a breath sharply with recognition. He tenses slightly, at the sight of her. His cock, jerks up above the waist of his jeans, fully aroused.

His pulse speeds. Desire clouds his vision.

He draws a breath, then exhales slowly. He starts the car and pulls forward. A sly smile creeps upon his lips. He can smell her, already.

I, harbinger.

I am the pac-man of the soul,
I come hungry, ready... ready to devour,
I cannot be stopped by the mere mortals of shape,
I will not be doomed to stupid destiny of space,

I have found the reason to destroy,
I am not only the thought,
I have only action,
I, harbinger.


---
Written and emailed, as a response to this insane thing: http://www.hypnoid.com/psytest2.html

My Diagnosis:

You need to help others and to be thought of as a generous and kind individual. Often you are taken advantage of and regarded as simply part of the scenery. You work best when handling the work yourself; you do not appreciate a managerial role and tend to be uncomfortable in that position. Friendship is important to you, but it is generated on a personal basis, rarely a professional one. Consequently, family life is very important to you, and is often the most important aspect. Because of a strong sense of propriety however, you will sometimes consider the eccentric behavior of your friends and family as a personal affront. Often you find it difficult to speak up about personal anguish or pain, feeling instead that it is something an individual should bear in silence. Tradition is important to you, and you feel a sense of belonging when operating within the constraints of a predictable routine.

Something something... don't mind if I do.

To wit, it comes.

The ground shakes as I scrawl the letters backward in the dirt. Starting the incantation in reverse, is something new. It might draw up 'The All-Knowledge'. It's something like a piece of the greater, infinite, intelligence of the universe. It was lost to us in the primordial soup, of the galaxy's formation.

This is not even a gamble. I die today. Either I will become insane and then explode or I will be fundamentally changed. If this works, my guess is that I will be absorbed into the fabric of space time; to become pan-dimensional.

Overhead the stars swirl. I know that this is it.

I think of blue sky; first bulbs of April; red leaves on a breeze; the day after a long, deep, snow; a girl from childhood; a long-lost companion... -Sigh- *