I am weary of the garden, said the blogger.

 


Writing for me has always been an act of sacred communion.

The conjoining of minds is the holiest and purest form of human interaction.

The written without the reader is an unbitten fruit:

A thing formed and existing, but without savor because flavor is only experienced on the tongue of the taster; just as writing only reaches its fullest expression in the mind of the reader.

I am not a diarist.

I write for expression, yes, but also for impression...

Yours.. the reader's.

I want to infect you with bits of myself, true, but I want, in turn, to witness the metamorphosis of my ideas as they merge with your concepts of them. I can only know this through the miracle of interactivity. I need the exchange of energy. Ours, that which exists between writer & reader, is a true symbiosis. Each benefits from sharing his respective resources with the other...

I am not interested in parasitical relationships.

Unilateral, lop-sided exchanges benefit no one.

In the end, both the parasite and its host dies.

I am weary of the garden, said the rose. I am ready to prick someone... anyone... with my thorns. Being a rose is a bloodthirsting business. Cultivation is as boring as monk fuck. Give me the battlefield of finger vs petal and prepare for the impending storm!  Or else, pluck me and wear me behind your ear, but I do not wish to wither on the vine. It is a slow, sad death.

I wish you all great luck in your future endeavors.

I am done with online writing.

It Is Not The Sky That's Falling...

It is not the sky that's falling

It is only the rain

Beating

against the concrete pavement

Black as crow's wings

With a tacked hardness

Piercing the winter song

Making the Night long

For the kiss of light

Dark-cloaked and

Praying with weary lips

for

the sun to rise

Once more

In Day's teary eyes....

Logos is the Word

It is said that the archetypal

Savior was the word made flesh

And manifest

To become the bearer of truth.

But is truth wisdom?

Is wisdom truth?

We are the rebellious children of titans

Ready to battle our fathers

on autonomy's shaky ground.

Every little boy wants to jump higher,

run faster than his sire

Unless, he's taught it's impossible.

I do not know the difference

Between sophistry and pragmatism.

Nor do I believe that such distinctions distinguish us.

Mold the clay anyway you like...

No matter how you shape it

It's still just clay.

We are the essence

Of what we are.

A foundation 

is concrete, 

gravel 

and rebar.

What came first?

The sperm or the egg?

Crack the cosmic egg anyway you like.

I'll still make a omelet.

 

 "The egg symbolizes the rising Sun and the beginning of life. In many myths about the creation of the world, a cosmic egg is laid by a giant bird in a formless, ancient ocean. The egg splits into two and the sky and the earth appear from the halves of it, while the sun is seen in the yolk. You can see in the picture that the newborn Sun still hasn’t taken its final shape yet. Shreds of primary matter continue to stream from the burning sphere rising over the ocean. According to Polynesian myth, the Hawaiian Islands were born from such an egg."

~  artist's explanation for the painting Sunrise by The Ocean, Vladimir Kush

Negative Kiss

 

There are things to be said

places in felt

locked away though not quite forgotten.

They are sealed in impossibly old dented tin
dripping wax

vacuum-packed

carefully stored and preserved

like July's sweetest peaches.

They sit precariously

suspended

on the muted lip of a shelf in old Mother Hubbard's cupboard

where dusty skeletons jangle their x-rayed bones

heard only by the tone-deaf ear

of Duty's stalwart resignation.

They glow with an eerie phosphorescence 

on cold, moonless nights.

Their odd number
so beautiful
with asymmetry

Their lingering
moment
dangling a proposition
into
strange geometries
unknown

And I would a thousand morrows surrender

for the
promise 

of that one true kiss not
tasted

yet still not

unremembered.

 

Metamorphoses (w V-log)

"I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane."

~ Sylvia Plath

Love is a religion

It has zealots who keep

Its alabaster vessel untainted

by the poison of doubt

With that madness

of habitual ritual comes

The sublime sacrifice

of the sanctity of the self

It's like CS Lewis' Lion

on an ego-thumping acid trip

Feral, ferociously scathing when challenged,

yet willingly surrenders itself on the altar

of stony resolve.

Love is like all others

who would call themselves God,

Be they gods of grace or science or just

the Ayatollah of rock and rolla

Spreading wings of desire

like the seraphim

Transmogrified into

a reverie of Revelations.

When it's unrequited, its wistful mendicant is

Like a hungry waif

Peering into a bakery shop window

His Pavlovian foaming blood dog juices

Flowing

Going going gone

A gong of ultraviolet waves

Crashing into crimson tides
with a sibyl's Cymbals

Feeling a depraved deprivation

that guards the mouth of hell like Cerberus

until a tune crooning Orpheus comes along

to make that junkyard dog

wag his tail with his bard song

Desire becomes a cosmic brawl

where all Hell breaks loose

With howling peeping tom Moons ambushing you

and six point Ninja pinwheel Stars thrown into

A whorling

All sugar-frosted death spirals

Sambaing to the patterns of Venus' capricious

crookfingered come hither

The planets turn into drunken sailors on shore leave

laughing and wobbling on their axes

Seducing you with their carefree charm & easy saunter...

Slipsliding into you
under the black satin sheets of night

Your universe seems like a schoolyard game.

Red light, green light 1, 2, 3

Yes No...
Yes No...

Green red green red

Go Stop Go Stop Go...

Stop

But you want

To scream out NOOO!!!

Don't stop!

Don't...

Stop.

Please don't

Ever

Stop.

Run those red lights like hungry Ethiopians

in an Olympic deathmatch,

a marathon for the dazed & damned.

That's how I feel anyway...

But I'm just a bunch of scattered iron filings

Magnetized

By you

You radiate true light....

Van Gogh sunflower bright

Plucking hearts that spin and dive

like clouds of starlings

with every petaled touch of your thoughts

to create the sonorous sigh that is the universe

Beyond...

Beyond..

Beyond...

Light years beyond

Dali's wetdreams couldn't imagine

Anything more seductively surreal than you

With all that Teutonic symphonic voodoo

Your futuristic dystopia

becomes a cornucopia

feeding my rising New Tower of Babel

but I know that the heart must be the mediator

between the head and the hands

For my Metropolis to stand

I want to be your Maria

You

With your singing bones

tickling those liquid piano string veins insane

Your blood red soul

streaking and seeking the higher clime.

A place with no boundary, no borderline;

But you are earthbound,

your snaky tendrils

rooted in the sensual

as you take me

Sky-fucking...

to a rhythmic rhapsody

A Dante Diamond Dog daemon,

An incubus of Sumerian seething seedings

Crosspollinating with mankind

Your looming blooming

Bodhi tree shadows

Make me burning bush blind

Sometimes I feel like Cassandra...

but the impending doom

bubbling in the canal

of Pele's molten womb

That I foresee

Is just a Mr. Spock raised brow speck

in the lash of an unblinking galaxial eye

An aborted afterbirth

A stigmatic chorus of indulgentia

forming a karmic stye

Life is probably pointless:

the backward glance

in the twisted fate of

some toric variety thrill

yet I treasure it still.

It's such a fragile thing...

Love and happiness may just be

a snowflake on Baal's tongue,

something that dissolves

evanescing into vapor

before it is even done

but I don't care...

maybe it's all just helium bubble dreams

blown by Venetian glassmakers

in a Cinderella slippered

fairytale...

Still... my pumpkin coach ride is sweet

And I caught it; I caught you
holding your breath...

fighting to keep your choke hold on love

Your only weakness
is the strength of your pride

In the war of you versus us

At the end of the day,

After all the heartache

After the battle axes have been wielded

And fallen

And the blood of the vanquished

is running thickly in the gutters

Clogging them like a fat greedy man's arteries...

After the carnage has been photodocumented,

CNN has done its coverage

And the bodies have been buried...

We live and love on..

Maybe no love can survive

The fallout of such a thermonuclear meltdown...

But the true believer will try to breathe those toxic fumes

Pretending that it's just a little fog....

We all have to die of something sometime anyway...

Love is a better reason than most
of the other demagogues'...

And nothing is without flaw

I'd rather have the man than the muse.

You can't fuck the ideal.

You can't cuddle up on a sofa

to watch The Thin Man series with a Beatrice.

Goddamn the Beatrice, I'd pop a cap in the bitch

if I were armed with something more than desire.

However I am the eternal feminine...

with nothing above my shoulders but the evening.

My head is not in the clouds...
it IS the clouds

And the sun and the moon and
the Van Gogh stars
that burn life firebrands
in the diamond-cut brilliance of your eyes.

I want to feel the rasp
Of your stubble

When you kiss me on the morning.

I don't need the hasp
of orange blossoms,
candlelight and
violins to lock me into you.

I want the pregnant scent
of your body musk

to be the oil I bathe in...
I want to be lathed
by the boil in your roiling sea

I want the gasp
In the moans
Of your pleasure

To be the music I dance to,

I want to feel your pain

Drink your tears,

Swallow your cum.

Perfection is a fatuous child's dream.

I want the crack in Henry James' golden bowl,..

Makes it look all the more beautiful to me

Because I know it has a gossamer fragility
an intrinsic tangible nobility
A beauty that defies the lark flight of mere fancy

But I'm a believer...

This is a re-post from last March.

Play my video reading, if you like. Oh and Happy Valentine's Day!!!

You Think Too Much...

"Concordantly, while your first question may be the most pertinent, you may or may not realize it is also the most irrelevant."
— The Architect, The Matrix Reloaded

Love is a many splendored thing, but one thing it does NOT bear well is too much scrutiny.

The brain makes mistakes.
It misperceives, it overanalyzes , it can get stuck in a recursive loop like a defragmented computer program.

It's HAL without all the logic or the computative power of artificial intelligence.
Making the same mistakes over & over again because of a defect in the way the programming was uploaded or a virus that attacks the integrity of the stored data.

Sometimes we just need to close our eyes, open our minds, and feel our heartbeat.
We cannot live without the visceral.
All those ganglions humming harmoniously waiting to be stimulated by the flood of hormones.
Doused in love juices we are nourished, we are ALIVE!

But we must really learn to love selflessly, that is the key.
There is a difference between true love and compulsion, obsession or lust.

The former seeks nothing more that deepest intercourse of mind, spirit and body.
The latter seeks only to own for the sake of owning. To stake a claim in the gold mines of a persona . Not to tend it and gently draw from it, but to raid it and eventually eviscerate it...

The old "If I can't have you, nobody can" mentality.
Exceedingly ugly & destructive for all involved.

I was having a long discussion one night a while back with someone who thinks love is a crock of shit & only used by manipulators to get what they want.
It saddened me.

The heart full of the truest love is not manipulative, it is meant to be liberating...
Those who love us wish only the best and most rewarding experiences for us.
Even if it means they must step aside to make way for our well-being.
I think we all know that intuitively, but refuse to believe it and so we fight the love and lose the battle to our happiness.

Why?

Fear.

Fear of rejection.
Fear of pain.
Fear of sorrow.

It snuffs out the flame of love.
Deadening the pain, yes, but to what avail?


Okay so now, you're all cosy and protected. The force fields are up, the phasers set to stun. you are manning the com of your Starship Enterprise except the crew of the Enterprise had a mission to explore strange new worlds, to seek new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before.



What's your mission?
Where are you going?
Who are you meeting?
When will you be happy?

Sitting there pondering the imponderable.

"Why are we here?" "What does existence mean?" "What is love?"

These are all questions we ask ourselves at some point.
Some of us more than others.
Wanting answers to the unanswerable.

I think that is why religion is so important to the many... because it gives them some refuge from, some general purpose to a confounding world. Wish I could have such faith in sky-bound deities, rigorously guiding our daily lives, but I don't.


I do, however, have faith in love.




Man is a social animal.
Nature has conspired against even the most introverted, self-subsisting loners among us in that regard. Eventually, we seek distraction from our own thoughts.

We seek converse, discourse, intercourse.

We need each other.
Even if it is just the few or the one...

Someone who understands us.
Often time, that is why we who write do so
For self-expression, yes, but also to seek...



We seek like-minded souls to empathize with us.
We seek even the dissonant souls to give us new perspective.
We seek the love... even in the lusty, the carnal...

I'm ALL about the quality! In ALL aspects of my life.
Every thought brings the purest frisson of pleasure.
Delicious, tantalizing, delectable...
Yet, unless brought to action, to realization, it is a still-born child in a mother's arms.
A sad contemplation of what could be...

Every kiss is like a snowflake, beautiful, unique & ephemeral in nature...
Something to be delighted in, treasured... desired...

Hence, the no sex for so long.
Not only because I am a married woman with a husband who has no interest in such interaction, but also because a random fuck is worthless.
Lovemaking (& YES, to me, it is ALWAYS LOVEMAKING, dammit!) is far too important to me to trivialize.

No matter how tasty hot the prospect may seem.
Look, I KNOW how to satisfy my own sexual urges on my own quite well.
I am not going to tolerate anyone to treat me like a hole in the mattress or WORSE get so intimidated with my voracity that they feel inadequate.

I'd rather have NOTHING, than settle for a lot of shitty near misses.
A connection with a man FIRST before the fucking is paramount.
It is the prelude to the concerto that is the beautiful music of real sensual pleasure...

There is great pleasure in just thinking about what it would be like with him first before doing it.
It is exquisite torture, that kind of anticipation. That wanting, that yearning... gets me aroused just thinking about it!

Nothing can beat it... but it takes love to get me to that luscious place where the rush of the rapids finally takes me over the edge of that waterfall.

*sigh*

Sometimes words alone can take me to the crush of the broken dam.
Words...
Like so many Tahitian pearls strung seamlessly, beautifully concordantly together...





These days, I feel like I live in a roiling ocean of words.
Being tossed about in a rollicking ship, at times.
Yet at other times, I feel myself gliding smoothly on a sea of colored glass. A mosaic of all of the collective thoughts & feelings of you, my sweet cyberpals.


There are many roads to Love's nirvana.
To that transcendent state of idyllic existence...


I have often cynically called this little piece of cyberheaven we all reside in the world wide circle jerk.
Perhaps, it is.
But it is more than just a place for instant ego-gratification and mutual admiration.
Much more.
It is another mode of transport for those on the great quest of life, love & that uncertain but never fatuous thing called happiness.

I am happy to be here and to have you all along for the ride when you decide to hop aboard the Goodship C.C..
Just wanted to take this moment to thank you.

But as per usual, I digress...
hahaha...



Think less. Love more. Something wonderful might just happen...

 

Memo To A Fisher King

 

“Even in warmest glow
how cold my shadow”



10 fingers
10 toes
Last time I checked
But I look anyhow
Taking inventory...

I see scuff marks
On shoes well worn
Pacing their way
Along
A graveled path

These shoes could probably walk
Without me
by now

I wear them
Not because
 I lack choice
But because they're comfortable

I choose
The path
of least resistance
these days

Low light
And long shadows
Cast doubts
As the seemingly endless line
of irrelevancy baits itself
On autumn's late afternoon

What kind of fish will I catch
Without certainty's promises,
I  wonder...
My tackle has lost its lure
My future remains unsure
But I've learned patience
With age

And the difference
Between want and need 


 





There is a guy fishing here
As I write this
under the bridge
that spans a golden gateway
between sea and sky.

He never seems to catch anything. 
He just fishes to fish, I think, 
But then again... 
Don't we all?

Beyond The Blue Horizon

 


The train moves dreamily
forward
Its rickety clack clack
clanging
along open track ways...

snaking through the rivers and skyscapes
of a once great land
to the tombs of long dead Emperors
and their pottery shard remnants

encased in glass
time-dusted memories
of what used to be.

Such is the cycle of life... 

Everything eventually devolves into a tourist trap
for the weary traveler.

Jolting impulses
shift flesh uneasily
over bony contentions.

The car lurches.

Suddenly,
Your hand
grey-scaled and determined
juts out an open window
feeling the discarded Sunday flicker
ease by

strewing what remains of us...

just so much heart confetti
flying in three frames:

And this is past
Now this is the past
No, this is the past...

Like the time I was 6
and stood at the back of the 5 train
feeling my life unreel
in the dark taffy pull of a subway tunnel,

mesmerized
by the revelation
that now was nothing more than then
a revolution ago
spun in steely filaments and fireless sparks...

The cold war has never ended.

Don't forget to send me a postcard from the front.

Ban The Hammers

 

I am tired of judgments
Of being judged

Of gavels that hammer down
On a hollow-drummed justice
rattling and hooting
In mob jungle orgies

Punch drunk from their own precepts
Feinting in the toxic fumes of
Their own presumption

What is beauty?
What is vanity?
What is truth?

Who is perfect?
What is perfect?

Who is the ultimate arbiter of all that's worthwhile?

You of the high brows, wiki-mind and low opinions?
You who consent only by dissent?
You who inflate your empty-bellowed sense of self-worth
With a fist pump operated
By the hot-aired scorching denigration
Of those whose intents you singe
Willfully on the pyre
of your own egotistical desires?

You of the many accusations?
You of the no solutions?
The best defense is a good offense, isn't it?

The accusers always avoid the executioner's axe.

Fuck that hard!

There is only one universal truth:
We all want to be loved.

Live your way
And let others live their way.
No one ever died
from too much understanding.

Out Of Time

 

Light leaks under the doorway
puddled memories ripple uneasily
on the last threads of a bare stained carpet

Are those my own footsteps I hear?
Maybe the bag I'm carrying is too heavy
and my heart is beating fast.
I want inside as I fumble for keys

The wind sputters of the past
gurgling through the crevices
of glassy wokenness beckoning
its airy bubbles to burst

Bending time like waves
in a sea of forgotten shards
splintering minds
bowled over like wooden pins
struck hard with the clatter of echoes

Ideals dally
playing possum
with a dead-man float

How long can anything hold its breath?

I dive into the room
swimming in thought...

We know starving people subsist
as pity plays their ribs like xylophones
and broken children are bludgeoned
with battering rams wielded
by well-intentioned do-nothingers

We are all dead men waltzing to a samba beat
Out of sight
Out of mind
Out of rhythm
Out of time...

I hope my dance card isn't filled yet.

Do I Dare Disturb The Universe?

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

~ T.S. Eliot, J. Alfred Prufrock's Love Song 

 

I want to be the storm brewing inside you...

 Where dawn and twilight meet

On little catbird feet 

To sprawl luxuriantly upon the seat

sieged from greedy Day's hold on Time...

When shall we rise

To raise the tides

That flood the Nile's pride,

And wash the smug glint from Fate's

Narrow eagled eyes?

Tomorrow may never come...
I am ready here and now
to lasso the horizon

And swallow the moon whole...

Do not make me wait so!

The universe has come knocking on our door

Who are we not to let it in?

Through the opiate 
of Love's gauzy veil...


Possibility glimmers,
This moment shimmers

 to free us from complacency's miserly sin.

Y

E

S 

Take me.

I am already
drunk with you.

Let's savage this diem, 

Ripping the day away 
from Reality's stony hands 
Let us be Monghols
In virgin land
Ravishing each other's conquerables

or drown in your Prufrockian tears

merging sand, sky and sea 
Regretfully.

Yes...
All is lost

Unless...
You find me.

On the torpor of the sun's trail,

 I will draw your unspoken name with fiery breath 

Riding that carriage 
in the flight of wings that is your voice 
Incarnate

That voice
That voice
with its silken grip
Leading me to...
Pleading me to...

Yes...

You will sing your Orphic come hither
and the stars will dance
a spiral blizzard
to your honeyed-tones

dazed in the melodic maze

  that is your diamond-ribboned mind
Until they sever Heaven from the ether
 as they strive
ever higher
to seek you

Just as I do.

I have dwelt in these mountains of madness with
Thoughts of you seeping into my glacial pores,
through miles and miles of helical roads
smelting my DNA
setting fever to my mores.

I am infected with you.
 

Do not doubt our place in time
We are not afterthoughts in the afterbirth
of those idle wooden gods...
We breathe the life into science & art.
Becoming the very embodiment
of every creators fomented heart.
Our Non-Euclidean geometry
leads not
to depravity
or post-Glasnost gravity
its release from linear confines
shakes the world molotov cocktail-fine
Its enlightenment  a shine
tracing the elliptical curves of arced wants
intersecting infinity in a holy congress of careful copulation.


We are the golden filigree bliss
woven into every
Klimt black widow kiss
  Cocooning portals to other dimensions
Chasing the prayer of
Floating dandelion seed worlds
A beginning, not an end...


Just say when...

There is nothing too big for us... 

Yes...
Oh yes...

I want to be the storm brewing inside you...

 

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock