Drop of Morphine

It’s morphine, the words, the books

The dull clutch of sanity warping the hole into a palatable swallow

Years drive varied diseases vantage poisons to fancy anesthesia

In lacquered gleams upon the table a hand descends

To pick a cup, vial, syringe, belief system, page

Chips like coins of sandy dust glassed in vessels

To expunge malicious credit accrued

A devil’s debtor’s prison lock shackle struck indentured

To an understanding that this appliance is the only space to hide

The binding of the library covers like epidermis sheets

To unfold and crawl inside the mind of another human’s madness

The escape gag, the lifeboat dingy in the great big ocean

Hours of maze time rented amongst the dead

The ones who knew there is no place safe

The yawn of the universe mires consciousness

The racks, the food-stuffs, the techno-gyros

Are illusionist’s prestige in a mirrored appearance

The gaping circus is a refraction of ideas about ideas

How one approaches the high wire is more critical

Than if one falls or traverses the exposure

The exposure in itself is a lie; nowhere is harbor

The enfilade’s reach is absolute because there is

No alone or together only perspective

Vacationing, exploring daring into the wild wind canyon ledge

The cityscape Metropolitan framed digital crutch

The painting, the theater, the masked burlesque

The quotidian crocodile’s clenched jaw

None of it is special or miraculous

Only effused presence; distance is an illusion

No matter Thailand, Rio, or New Orleans

The reverberating hum of what love is

Echoes like owl eyes blinking in infinite darkness

Seeing us, is us, but we see nil, staring at us always

A perfection of consciousness independent of location

Time, or matter, we are imbibing the morphine of the moment

The whisky, the dote to progeny, the dollar margin call

The holiday-effusiveness gilded in cheer frosted purpose

Dangling as calendar’s rotate charming annotations

The blasphemy to stare another human in the eyes prolonged

Sustained, ambiguous, totality of awareness

To see with them, through, in, and as them

The gobble of consumerist incidences quelled

To be and ask not the petty hungers of how do I make you feel

How are you in this moment, but to witness

To give the awe of aching movement swarming as the echo

The gong flush of time careening off the wire, as the wire, and before the wire

The trepidation, the love, fear, and accomplishment known and unknown

Beaming out of possibility itself flush in the duality of cheeks and irises

Panning into and out of the other, being

The books the poetry they are morphine to digest, to be with

The presence and absence of that realization

Maybe one took to a sports match, a pool cue, a pipe, a fabric brushed to skin

Tasting that dangle of time, eyes making liquid poetry

The paradigm that registers with this tongue

The glutton parched and famished in the aftermath

The depressive cork catapult launched

Some hours reek of death like a lust-lick bullet to mate

As if escape were available, the maze gave a rudder on the great big ocean

The stage of the toes on the wire to become relevant

Laughter haughty and muted in the belly of such arrogance

There is no end for there was no beginning

Maybe some authors knew and readers are looking to confirm

The not so kept secret radiating right out the page

Like nuclear material humming the radix of the gods

Fantastical prodigious luster

That the hunger to simply be

Be in the universe through the portal of the self with others

Conveyed and understood in the empathy of consciousness

Addicted to the drug of wanting to be

Knowing how clear the table, how ready to release grip

On identity, musts, have to’s, will not’s, and are not able’s

Into is, am, and breathing inhales and exhales moments

Terrifying luscious drinks of life savored in tongue to lung

Separating body from the act, seeing every artistic motion

Of volition to create, risk, and stroke will to canvas

Being a bead of painted ink absorbing and dissolving instantaneously 

Here piggies: A pair of thoughts 20151123

Thought One

The very same people who want two years of inspections, tests, review, analysis, assurance beyond faith to allow a drip in the global river of a Syrian refugee and her father to relocate in America for fret of monsters protest rational industry inspection standards for consumer protection as anti-free enterprise from an Ayn-Rand fetishism inculcated by neo-liberalism spouted as demigod makers and devil-takers lambasting democratic socialism as communism and misconstruing neo-liberalism as liberalism.  Terms, mathematics, logic, facts matter.  When a wolf lures a sheep into the bedding grass; he first takes his mind, twists his schooling, transposes who bears the canine incisors, who profits from Packingtown, and blames the herding union for the slums.  The pigs believe the knife is good as the blade splits throat smiling in an unshakeable creed addicted to the invisible uninspected opiate of obedience.  The eye of the pawn-butcher becomes indifferent or antagonistic to the squeal happy for the sustenance of a crumb descending through the tiered killing floors and the lick of blood off his boot to quell his parched tongue into silence.

Thought Two

If you want to understand any international trade agreement like the TPP or NAFTA you need to understand the variables in the equation are a lowest common denominator of labor cost and a numerator of absolute unstoppable greed by the humans controlling the firms of global industry.  Greed over labor costs equals profit over human happiness.  This is neo-liberalism.  This is unfettered capitalism.  Regulations to mitigate greed or profit to increase resources to labor or happiness to the masses are marketed against by firm owners in an exponential use of profits.  Based on human count this could never occur unless desperation in the masses deflects the roots of dysfunction to inculcate faith in an invisible god whose Earthly manifestation comes in the form of a demiurge in the parental-form of a job creator or statist official showering fruits from a falsely rooted tree. The plant survives on the labor the masses provide and the nutrients of the planet owned by no man.  Access and extraction of labor and natural elements by either government or private industry inflate the girth of the waistline of greed and profit.  Only in reasonable regulation can the fractions balance, which will inevitably equal a positive integer of those in control owning more, but it is the magnitude of this numerator which will either escalate or deescalate acceleration towards our inevitable topple into human extinction. 

Born of Yolk - 20151122

I want a woman that has had her heart broken

Cracked egg-yolk completely in an emulsion of constitution

Of this is who I am self-definition congealed peering into the separation

Of yellow and clarity forced to un-mix to re-segregate

The colors of her life, the permanence of plans welded

To see the bolts of the steam ship popping like rocket corks

The wedding champagne of tuxedos and silk dresses

Of the man you brought to events or etched on a joint invitation

Announced to the world, wrapping paper sliced

Refuse blenders and gilded rimmed China

Closeted linens and cabinet steel pots

The cake knife licked tongue blood on the blade

Tears in hands scrubbed toilets and shopping cart aisles

Of knowing what one eats orientation of stomach acids

Remediation of bleached pillow case investment

Of what it means to put money down at the track bet a horse

And lose it all

Bankrupt at the sunset approaching, last race of that day

Dress sterile in the limpid breeze peering out that this is a circle

Hair flowing, fist gripping, eyes to the sky knowing that swallow

The orange camel blackness of ember darkness fading into charcoal midnight

The sensation of when one was younger digesting, times not resented

But remembered of in the nutrition of bones, sinew, and tissue

Of heart broken and muscle pumped into a growth of lotus petals breeching mud

I do not want a lily or cloistered farce the lights have never gone down on

I want her to know the difference between the tip toe sounds and the fired scents

Of passion and dedication, to breathe the rarity of what it means

To consistently choose to be one’s very best self

Is not a diagram of fidelity to repress the stimuli of passion in the dancing fonts of the track

But the focus to elect growth in each day, not by default, but by desire

The volition only learned from a broken heart eviscerated into alone

Devoid of the option of love it has wholly relied and chosen to live 

Diary Style Velociraptor Story- 20151121

I just know life goes through seasons. I went to lunch today at Abraham's nursing home for this Thanksgiving thing. He's telling me how he prays the rosary everyday and goes through each person. He says he prays for me to find happiness and also for me to come back to the church, which frankly I find kind of charming in an old grandpa Simpson sort of way. I see the non-religious facility pray to Jesus before the meal and everyone bow their heads in the room on a command. I keep mine up to stare around like everyone just put moon pies over their eyelids and strapped on salad bowls for helmets. I try to make eye contact with anybody that is daring not to bow to the ceiling fan deity. My cousin was there with her son Cecil with a velociraptor toy and so I crouch down into an impersonation to make tiny arms and walk like one, while holding his toy. This makes him laugh. This is the highlight of my day.

I know somewhere in my guts I want a family. I try to deny it; tell myself I am invincibly able to gut out alone; that I want to be alone, that this introvert translation that the past doesn't matter, that I will be fine if all the family I ever know is my daughter for the rest of my life and I accept I don't know and it doesn't matter, but inside I know what my dreams were growing up and still in me was to be a dad and a husband and be a good human. I just have this fantasy in my head that there is a spot for me and my daughter in some family that we are supposed to be a part of and that is not too much to ask.

So I keep my eyes open and not hope, not go to faith or any crutch, just realistic day by day filled with meditation, art, yoga, music, writing, whatever New Orleans brings me, but somewhere in all of that is this staring match with this old idea of god. Like come on mother fucker blink, show me the point of all this shit, of the trials and the needle point stitching pricks and slashes of abandonment all down my spine until god asks me to bend over, curve down and worship, say the ultimate uncle like god deserves props or some shit in this game of real, not real, chicken, karma, purpose, reason, nothing, interconnection, the universe, my place in it, all of it.

I write. I wonder, I ponder, I laugh, I put myself out there, dive in again and again and hold no animosity or anger beyond a thimble and spit before swallowing any forms of addiction or reliance or ego centered pity or that I actually have a real reason to even be sad about a damn thing and chalk it up to impatience or being fidgety, unwilling to hold breath. So I breathe. I breathe in mediation and contemplation and try to say ah, that's my thing, to be alone to do this, to have some rat in the machine of thoughts to write shit no one is going to read, but the thought to put it out there has some sort of pin ball collide surprise consequence I don't ever have to see because time and again that is how I see the universe pan out. That is what the universe does, life is, that these little sequences of volition and apparent randomness are all of consequence and relevance not because of some plan, of voyeuristic sadist, but because when I move everything moves and it is the movement, the illusion of time progressing in the act of doing that is one big giant beautiful portrait and it doesn't much matter what I do or what happens to me or if I ever get a family again. All I have to focus on is the portrait, the big one where god is an illusion with time in the background to what is, it simply is and all I have to be is in the moment.

So many nights that is what brings me peace and a place and the shedding of crutches like worry or fear or want; but some nights I just want a family, a shoulder, a spirit vessel to put love in, food for that aching place that just wants to know someone else sees it; the portrait, and in the one they see, I'm in it. I am part of the portrait, maybe beautiful and not replaceable, like a seed to a forest worth growing so that when anyone else looks there they see it; all the work, all the hours, all the dreams, blooming. Because that is what we all are, mini-sections of a common universe blooming and creating and beaming and maybe it's enough to know you have that in you, but sometimes, just sometimes it feels really good to be seen for who you are and someone else to say, "I want nothing more than to live in your branches."

Facebook Conversation - 20151122

French - poster self loathing

I need to stop obsessing over women who will never be interested in me and start focusing on improving myself. How the hell do I do that?

Comment:

Try to see other people for the objective autonomy of volition and self each individual wields not in reference to your ego (i.e. how much you like them or they might like you if they were to experience say x,y, or z), but see them as part of a universal whole that you each belong and in that whole is an infinite realm of decisions and choices which are possible and in that possibility are women who are interested in you for you, for the you inside your being the universe bursting inside you and that dedicating your energy to these women who are not interested in you is a choice you are making to idealize reality; them liking you is a non-reality you have created as a goal, a road, an avenue of energy you are flowing your volition of which will not feed you. If you want to be fed, if you want to ask yourself does this make me happy; does this make me grow; a road to a woman who is not choosing you is not about you; it is not about your ego or an assessment of you as a man; it is about her choice. Respect her choice; see her as part of the common whole to which you also belong. Release that self judgment, cultivate self-awareness and in this the population of women open to choosing you as you explore self-awareness, growth, roads that can add to your happiness, it is here that you will not only improve yourself, but most likely find women who you make happy, because she sees you are happy and growing as a self; and in this she can partner with you in her chosen journey of personal growth. This creates support rather than codependency and you will not obsess, but rather live without clinging or clutching to your idea of the font of your happiness, because the source of your happiness is the common universe inside you, not some woman you obsess over.

Eso - Seven Deadly Sins - 20151021

Angelina tilted her head to her conspirator Bradley.  She gave the signal, flashing a septet of stud earrings in her left lobe.  Hair was a jet black, lipstick vulva red, skin ivory with a pelt bead of sweat eyeing the wallet in the front side of the stranger’s tuxedo pants.  Angelina eyes grazed the raised bulge in the mark’s groin fabric.  Her partner on the other side of the room glanced at Angelina through a mirror admiring the curves of her torso, swan legs, but also his black stubble and clean cut quaffed hair peering steel into the mirror on the adjacent wall.  Bradley could look without appearing pensive and sterilized visualizing what it was like for his body to press into Angelina’s dirty, naked, and tight.

Angelina approached the wallet-endowed, pretended to bump nonchalantly as he puffed on a tobacco island in the muddle of the barroom.  Angelina had both hands on his shoulders, whispering in his ear, “I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.  Do you want to get out of here and fuck?”  The cigarette fell from his lips stumbling in his left hand, wedding ring gleaming as the orange glowing stick careened off the metal. The tube of smoke rolled onto the brick floor of the tavern barreling under the smashed snuff of Angelina’s stiletto heel.

In the flash a wallet was exchanged round the back, slid into Bradley’s palm.  The movement of Angelina’s mouth a half inch away from lips the scent of perfume redolent flexing like fish hooks the mark looked at her cleavage and was pulled to the stairway down to exit.  A cab paid by her, hands sowing discordant seeds in the back seat, no words but blood and plots. 

A hotel lobby, elevator, room seven hundred and seventy seven, an electronic pass card and a master suite.  Mahogany and leather, crimson paint, dimmed lights and a door locked with the manual barrier impeding intruders.  Angelina pushed the man to the bed sheets, legs wrestling like pythons nailing his wood to the mattress, clothes still applied. 

A bottle of Southern Comfort, a Merlot, and five more bottles of spirits sat on the night stand.  Angelina pulled up and said, “I want you to drink.” Angelina opened a drawer and pulled out six shot glasses, poured a separate spirit into each and a swirled a glisten of wine into her own cup.  The man downed each, pausing slightly for Angelina’s approval in between the fourth and the fifth, knocking over two of the bottles when reaching for the last.  The liquid washed the carpet.  Angelina extended a pill of ecstasy in her palm.  Gulping and grinning, his black tie strewn on the chaise lounge, the man removed his jacket and tuxedo shirt.  

The man smiled mead-laced and cock-strong proud of his indulgent prowess.  Angelina set her glass inside the drawer and pulled out two pairs of handcuffs, slowly attaching his left and right hands spread to the head board.  The bondage perked the slothful inattention. Angelina recused herself to the rest room, “Let me freshen up and I’ll come back in here and fuck your brains out.”  The man thought about his pants still on his body, how much he wanted them off, an insatiable desire to take Angelina, the hubris to know he still could, his besotted dick still hard underneath the cloth.   

Angelina came out the shadowed doorway like the devil’s smile.  The man’s eyes blinked like a hoarder collecting masturbatory material. Bradley appeared behind her like angel wings of a taller man smiling at a spider caught in a web. Angelina was completely naked, breasts like apple teardrops succulent and flushed.  Bradley’s jacket parted, hirsute chest exposed, the man’s wallet in his left hand the right gripping Angelina’s hip. 

Bradley spoke, “We know where you live.  You are on camera and your wife will know.”  Wrath brewed in the man’s eyes, mouth a hellacious growl of female canine as the referenced wench gripped a red ball with black strap round the man’s head gagging his maw.  Angelina said, “Eat, suck on it.  Now you are going to watch.”

Bradley took out a knife, slit the man’s pants exposing his purple flushed veiny cock, curved erect excited and rattling like a Soviet saber.  He held the blade giving a look indicating what would happen if the man moved or attempted to make too much noise.  Bradley used the tattered fabric to wrap the man’s ankles.  Angelina leaned over the man’s legs brushing her breasts against his legs draping her nipples and honing her mouth over the head of his penis, but pausing a half inch away extending her tongue to open air.  Bradley mounted Angelina from behind spreading her cheeks inserting his thick penis into her anus. Angelina pressed her forearms in like a Sphinx over the man’s body as he basted in lechery. 

The man wanted to both slap her and launch his own penis those inches higher into her mouth.  He looked at Bradley and wanted to be him, flip roles, and dominate on top like animal instead of this compliant shackled sloth. 

Angelina tilted her pelvis, raised her chest twenty degrees and lowered her hand to stimulate her clit as Bradley continued to drive.  Angelina came.  Bradley snorted like a racehorse, grunting and huffing to the finish line. 

The pair stood, dressed, wiped the room for finger prints, and retrieved the camera on the dresser.  The housekeeper found a bloated naked runt in the morning stammering like a leashed Labrador.  

Eso - Wanton World Mythology - 20151007

Long or maybe not so long ago sometimes gods and goddesses would fuck each other.  This is one of those stories; yes god porn.  Kali the destroyer and Krishna the lover.

Krishna meditated on the banks of a creek high in the Smokey Mountains inhaling the mist off the water while watching a pair of bears sodomize each other underneath a waterfall.  Krishna burrowed inside his mind like a picture show his third eye opened hearing the pants of his thousand wives across the world masturbating to his image.  As Krishna was called to do as a Sunday morning ritual Krishna replicated himself to attend to each wife.  Sometimes more than once like a David Bowie sort of thing so that he could have a three way and at the same time make love to himself and probably David Bowie too, because if you’re Krishna why not also get married to David Bowie.

Krishna whisked away with a multitude of virile penises and clits.  He did not always take male form on such excursions.  While there are many doorways of stories we could open this page, tonight will be Krishna and Kali as Shiva waits for the sequel.

In the thick of the Amazon jungle Kali was strewn ten arms, two legs holding the decapitated heads of smiling men whom she had recently devoured.  Their demonic bodies swallowed whole, consciousness imbibed.  Kali always got horny after getting apocalyptic.  Kali’s blue flesh was pulsating a serpentine rhythm reptile-like fixated on Krishna’s heat.  Krishna appeared as a red clay vase brimming with water on the back of a crocodile swimming towards Kali.  

Four of Kali’s free hands began to dance beckoning her fuck-god, tongue out long dripping with the blood of her kill lusting for Krishna.  Kali took two of the heads in hands five and six crushed them into powder raised to her mouth and blew the dust like a perfume she walked through the mist.  Her loin cloth dissolved.  Her skull-bone mala beads shook exposing her blue nipples engorged and soaked in blood. 

Kali breathed in the bone-dust.  A harpy eagle picked up the pitcher upon the crocodile and poured Krishna down Kali’s throat.  Kali burst an orgasm that shook the trees.  Aguaje fruit rained down.  Howler monkeys, tapirs, and macaws swarmed on the feast.

Kali could feel Krishna inside her stimulating her blood obliterating the traces of the toy-ish boys Kali ate to engorge her folds for Krishna.  Kali’s breath mixed with Krishna flowing to each of her muscles wrapping into Kali’s inner clitoris like a wishbone Krishna was granting.  Bulbs deep internal erection, eight thousand nerve endings, Kali multiplied them like the stars when Krishna was inside her echoing a flower that when orgasming pollinated every plant in the rainforest.  Passion flowers, ginger torches, and lotuses bloomed wildly.  Kali’s sweat flung from her indigo skin transforming into butterflies gorging on the fresh nectar in the ovules.

Kali’s body quivered as an eclipse belted the sun into bondage darkness.  The forest hooted and cawed at the crepuscular flood.  Krishna was fucking Kali from the inside.  Kali took a hand left and right to place two fingers each upon her labia, two more hands one above to circle mons pubis draping down to her clit and the fourth into her vagina transforming four of her fingers into a thick, elongated penis.  Kali could feel her own uncircumcised tip in her mind kissing Krishna as the very blood pulsing in her opening.

The ground quaked as Kali came seven hundred times with a ferocity that would take any human woman past death and echo into several afterlives.  There could be nothing left to experience in the mortal coil.  As Kali’s pants slowed the eclipse ended.  The local’s sacrifices were answered.   Kali’s third eye began to glow like an ember.  The red circle on an oceanic face swirled a tempest.  Two legs and arms spread the aperture.  Krishna crawled out of Kali’s third eye with a levitating flute in his mouth. 

Kali’s body fell raptured by the act breathing hot and rapid, genderless, at one with the universe.  Her arms lay spread, limp and taken of their strength transformed into ten succumbed cobras.  Kali’s belly rooted into a Kapok tree enormous and rocketing to the sky breaking the barrier of the canopy.  Kali’s legs stood upon themselves and became a Jabiru stork taking flight shedding a single avian tear falling onto Krishna’s forehead as he played his flute.  The tear rolled bifurcating a drip to each side of Krishna’s neck sprouting a left and right head each chanting Om.

Kali’s loins turned into an orchid at the base of the Kapok tree.  Krishna lowered his central head nestled his nose underneath the hood of the orchid’s sepal down the column to the pollinia gently parting the orchid’s lips.  In this simple touch a star exploded its final fusion in the far reaches of a distant or not so distant galaxy bearing a black hole.  Krishna vanished and Kali’s lust for death, destruction, and the killing of men was reborn once more.

Eso - Public Sexual Announcements - 20150923

No parades or public flare.  If demisexuals had a flag maybe half gray, half a bedazzled glittering fuchsia swirling in streaks of orange.  The percentage of gray varies by person.  Not oppressed; mainly incognito.  The prefix confers partiality, a limitation, a line or border, between asexuality and whole sexuality. 

As an over 35 Generation X’er, high school had no internet.  Even now most videos are nascent millennials contemplating petri dish dating and not the rusted razor blade of post-divorce monthly-mortgage adult.  The path to realize one is missing that component of physical sexual attraction to navigate the universe of the rawest human drive and why, how, and what fills that space is a perplexing entanglement and a gorgeous unravel.  The dormancy of preadolescence and the advent of pubescence appear normal to the viewer.  The need for a focal device to this slant of sexual stigmatism is not apparent.

Demisexuality implies one finds sexual attraction only through an emotional connection.  A common redress is “Oh you have to get to know people first.  Oh that’s me too.”  Ah, not quite.  This is not a choice; forming relationships, coquetry as a man is problematic. 

Demisexuality means the trigger is not there.  It is as if god was handing out flints on admission to puberty-island and one was given a bucket of wet sticks to fiddle around in the dark.  There is an animalistic drive to fuck another human body, spread legs, sphincter, mouth, or nontraditional erogenous zone physiologically connected to a parameter of symmetry, connotations of health and endowment to leapfrog optimum genetic half-sies.  That drive is present, but locked in a labyrinth behind an avenue of witnessing being-hood rather than body-hood. 

There are elements age, gender, to a degree the same derivations commonly denoting physical health that attract most humans to one another present.  One can recognize attractiveness but does not feel attraction unless unlocked through a maze of emotional connection.  Finding applicable conversation on the subject, as demisexuals finding one another, has a white porcupine quality to the affair as demisexuals are not seeking each other in some rodeo of lascivious emotional fetishism, rather pleasant in happy logs and burrows. 

One looks at a bar full of women and sees a gray canvas of baubles holding expansive universes cradling bigger internal worlds than any imaginable measurement device could register.  It is the overwhelming bombardment of stimuli that neuters.  The massiveness of that commotion infers the human connection to everything and creates a fog.  

A man could view her as attractive, but to be attracted there has to be this ineffable emotional mathematical bridge that is unwieldly, unpredictable, and a recipe for faulty decision making due to the ostensible illusions of the human mind. 

The reason, logic, or maze-wanderings to trigger attraction typically takes a Red-Bull moto-X type attention to detail of gear, angle of approach, and focus to leap such handlebar salvos without the not-so optimum steel-dervish misfire and mangled limbs careening into spectators.  The entire process is nothing but a series of blind hurdles with a vague idea of a payday.  The voided gray feeling thing has this indefinite dormancy period that could be one hell of a non-sex evening, a few dates, or a month or never.  There is a capricious fickle finger of god aspect to the reactionary ordeal to lift the fog.  This disparity of mathematics brings a Batman-like belt of gadgets to circumvent self-sabotage to appear interested like a burrowing mole to titillate a firebug of emotional connection before a time bomb terminates the folly.  

It is sort of like placing one’s hand into a never-before-entered darkened room logically knowing where the light switch should be, but isn’t, while the party-goer you are attempting to seduce is cat-like in twilight content to fuck your silhouette body in the pitch.  You need a glimpse first, then the darkness.  Otherwise fornication feels like fondling an unfamiliar bus depot transient.  A demisexual may like to talk to you, spend time, be friends, but is not attracted nor wants you to play slop hockey with their naughty bits without a palpable emotional inch of moonlight.  This is not confusion between sex and love; this is a necessary sexual trampoline for the gymnast to perform the vault.  One can try launching through the air summersaulting without one but a libido will likely lie down on the runway and go read a book.  

Covert demisexuality has the side effects of the other person thinking you like them far more than you actually do, because what you have to do to figure out if you could be attracted to them is to try to get to know them on this intimate emotional level that gathers the devils of appearing prematurely overt, preoccupied, or the ick-fest of creepy.  For hetero demisexual women this is less of an issue, but for adult men the alternative of closeted austerity is an inferior alternative. 

If you attempt to date or fuck a demisexual please give her or him time.  Demisexuals are generally turtles.  Please do not treat demisexuals like some kind of porn-house scavenger hunt challenge toying with our vulnerability as a bucket list of carnal conquest like banging an albino kudu to your post-notches.  A demisexual probably felt like a platypus alien-type creature during sexual awakening and are good now without the gawking.   

Demisexual emotions are generally eidetic and once formed anchor in an oeuvre of expression.  Thus when you break up with one please afford her or him a bit more elongated window compared to the non-demisexual former lover as the demisexual is not merely untethering from any actual element such as love or you as a person, but this additional sexual addendum that bears a gravity commensurate with the accreting investment it took her or him to form the emotional connection to you.  The demisexual is also breaking up with this emotional forest seeded and navigated.  This may require you to a pour a delicate pitcher of empathy. 

In the beginning it is not that the demisexual does not like you as a person or that he or she is not potentially attracted, it is that for the most part demisexuals are clueless.  Demisexuals are a clueless lot of bastards who get horny, masturbate, and think about sex within a spectrum.  When primed they will fuck you from your cerebellum licked down your fourchette to your commissure and uncage your soul like a flashpoint and explode reverberating orgasms to echo into the unbound universe.  That is the upside. 

For some emotional connection is like a nuclear plant mutant power. Fucking Jean Gray, Professor X shit.  Some demisexuals border closer to asexual, disinterested in sex; there is a spectrum.  When demisexuals connect with you and this can be independent of you actually connecting with them, demisexuals just have to believe it in their labyrinthine interpretation of sexual reality.  At that point the demisexual has done so much god damn work to get there she or he  are going to repay themselves and/or you, however you may perceive the currency exchange, in throttling your body with an armada-like inundation of carnal bombardment. 

A demisexual may be gentle, rough, play with toys, or whisper poetry into your neither regions spelled out in letters across your clit.  All sorts of amorous indulgences may be available, but to get there, to spark without the flint, demisexuals are an enterprising band of prurient conquistadors searching for emotional gold as the first step to try to figure out if they even want to plant their flag.   

Eso - Sapiosexual - a celebration of the cerebral affair 20150909

Hemisphere 1

The thread stitches a corset in my mind binding the figment image of you like a vortex. The parabolic lines of torso voluptuous, unwieldly, flaring as if your lochs are made of fire, flamed strands floating around the circumference of your face undulating as if under water, but engulfed in the orange reddish curls of a nova bursting in the absolute charcoal liquid midnight.  I can see you there burrowing past the glowing fusion into your thoughts like the belly of a star.  We could be there in a panoply from the mundane quotidian infantry marching away nestled in a conch shell of intellectual conclave.  The way you think like Mozart upon my libido tinged in the perspective of dream from where the reality of you ends and my imagination permeates the barrier where we can touch and I can feel your pant in my reverie.

We live behind keyholes, hiding, and crouching, pressing sealed oaken door dead bolts.  The whole god damn universe is inside swirling like a magnetic typhoon pounding an anvil tsunami across still water.  The costume of urbanity, politeness, and the coquetry of surface I can feel the mathematics of your introspection titillating my libido like the whip of a rider to the horse.  The veil is bursting chains away of how one is supposed to respond, to act, in the presence of a librarian goddess filing away the volume of raucous attraction a Coriolis cock-wise breaking my lips in slices like a letter-opener blade to an envelope I want to read you.  I want to read the folds of your binding like Lady Chatterley’s lover and be your gamekeeper.

     

Intimate lenses into peephole refractions cogitating pensive analytics proffering an amuse bouche on the table of your eye contact.  The amusement parks mount circus tents erected in the industry of coffee runs after ten p.m. to ignite the night owl into flight on sofa talks of Soren Kierkegaard and Jacques Derrida on how to live in the either-or these hands around ankles riding the silken pages of skin fastening purview into the quotes tattooed across your back.  Your gaze becomes an enfilade volleying gunfire along a line from end to end of this beastly tongue approaching the Library of Alexandria protecting your secrets. 

My viscera seize peristaltically animal and I am marooned here on a wedge of footing awash in the red sea falling around me in your erogenous gaze.  The churn in you liquid fire in the twirl of hair round your finger, bitten lower lip grinding me down in these sadden cloven hoofs as if Athena could disperse me into nothingness with a kiss.  The lithe bend in your smile woos an eidetic vividness I can see your garden burgeoning in the flush from your mind down to your clitoris engorging vulva dripping ripe.  The circus tent vaulted in an apex to the sun for the trapeze artesian to leap above this lion tamer and fall into my arms, whip and chest hair you slipping around me in lightness where the whole god damn earth cracks.  The playground opens up like devil’s canyon and we fall into the bravery darkness of what could be as if when we close our eyes there is everything.  Everything we saw inside these mind theatrics lifting like Atlas and in control of the seasons like Persephone, I can hold and you can inspire and I still have no idea of who you are or if any of this real, just a factory of mental amorous.

Hemisphere 2

We can speak poetry here, an orgasmic festival of what it means to be alive.  Reliable ground and open sky, hungering balancing polarity in a common atmosphere.  We root like varied pots and nook-gardens planted to encompass our personhood.  We have orchids and fichus, bonsai, apples, and sunflowers each at different download bars of season daring how does one let a person in to simultaneously orgasm with you in that spiritual, emotional, and mental place and feel the universe rip apart at the atomic seams and burst together like the fusion true intimacy is supposed to be without revolt?  How could the artist be vulnerable in this personal way like letting a man come behind the stage of your skin to see you as both fearless performer and fearful vulnerable human woman without ultimately treating him like an invader?

How does one picture being in life’s woods, thicket, brambles clustered in a circle, vision available in shooting lanes of sight, slits of light through the canopy overcoming the camouflage of quotidian monotony where the ivy tongued invasive species of life mulch such a busy jungle.  You feel to stay in this pocket of open amongst the chaotic tree beasts and log exchanges to just be in this grounded halo sanctuary.  You know you are a part of the forest; the forest is part of you; everything is growing.  Somewhere inside you know the jungle does not really exist.  The jungle is just an infinitude of other circles, beings feeling alone and together, connected, but swollen with an antsy false isolation to where no one sees each other unless they let the jungle in to grow roots intravenously in their bodily circle to meld the self away diffused into the everything to be exposed and at the same time embraced. 

Sometimes in all the vines and ant hills you see a person though a lightning bolt of vision, you feel like you see them, really see them in a flash like none of the thorns or quicksand was in between.  The mind space separating the chaos from the sanctuary of inside that is the circle muted the world’s cackle to where the only sound one heard was the image of another person staring at you for a lambently flickering sparkle.  You swear you saw her.  You saw it like a jaguar’s gaze from the shadow knowing the beauty and the danger were right there lurking with love and fear like a gush of saliva on an incisor for all the reasons a being wants to bite into the flesh of another knowing the answer is all in the choice of pressure applied, the point at which the biter does so to give pleasure or to take pain.  This is the nature of love, life and a connection between beings.  

This is the sapiosexual forest in which we are beginning to see each other and yet blind.  That line of sight was a road, a path in that fecundity.  You looked like an opening to form a connection that registered somewhere more than I dare say, but in the end felt like getting eaten.  The mind is a house of mirrors, this space a poet’s painted-word divinity evaporating in the realization that what one thinks inside the other’s thoughts is its own bladed rapier of pornography. 

Eso - A Feast for the Senses - 20150422

I put the blindfold on as she finished the syllable.  The cloth bore a Spanish flag, red and yellow.  She pressed her palms to my thighs.  I stood upon my knees shins parallel to the wooden bedroom floor, my heels up and toes pressing.  The form of my torso was at ninety degrees, skin naked, testicles hanging, penis not requested to be put to use yet, ready like the open window.

Before the dark I scan her bedroom, a charcoal painting of Tom Waits holds an accordion.  A crucifix and opposing ideas alive in my mind like two faces staring at each other in the shadows.  A bouquet of tulips sits on the cherry wood dresser in a clear vase pertly green with blue petals sheathing yellow stamens.  The scent from within the buds mixes with a flicker of incense tinted into jasmine lofting spryly around the rims of my nostrils emboldening my chest to rise like a race horse ready to run. 

The taste of oyster and potato soup I made us for supper drifted upon my lips.  The cuts of the shrimp stock for the base in the bouquet of tarragon, parsley, and thyme bleeding in with the celery, peppercorns, and salted crustacean shells brewing to a boil.  The pot bursting as I made dinner the way she likes it, steaming pungent into the corridors of her shotgun home.  Two pots on the stove shaking over the blue flamed gas bright like Venus tongues lashing heat smearing the gray metal into red swirls of umbrage.  The body of the pan begs for a reprieve.  She wants the knob bent to the limit until the broth cannot hold.  Bubbles pour from underneath exposed. 

She likes when I cook with Coltrane on the stereo, Kulu Se Mama or Ole.  In dress shoes and a tailored suit I come home from work with the cuffs of my shirt just past the jacket sleeves, my tie removed hung from the cabinet left of the sink neatly facing the room.  The buttons slipped nicely waiting like good children for her fingers to slip in behind me, wrap her arms around my waist, press her hips into my buttocks and thrust in a slow wave gliding her breasts against my back, fingers like a spider making a web unlatching button after button until biting my ears in full as I bend back my neck just so.

I hear the ocean inside her mouth as her lips fully surround my lobe.  Her tongue twists inside the folds as all I can hear is my night opening.  Some evenings it feels like payment for visitation, for preparing sustenance on her terrain.  I stare into the granite backsplash and the stainless steel of the range for a haze of her reflection.  She has a thing about not making eye contact or saying a word, as if that silent space would spiral out of control if either of us had to put such directness in the contact.  The separation heightens the sex.  The spiral of knowing without elaboration is lightning.  The place is putting Coltrane to the needle knowing what note comes next without a lyric to ruin the auditory glaze. 

The ears can do so much if you just let them be blanketing the time to this moment, kneeling here in her bedroom blindfold placed into the black.  We could be anything here, no lines, not walls, just infinity breathing like the universe was simultaneously my exhale and her inhale trading in particles. 

She lights a single candle.  She takes an ice cube and passes it across the August night onto my right scapula framing a V up and down through the center of my back.  The rims of the blades drink the coolness as she maps her tongue behind dredging her teeth piercing part of the flesh at the edges.  I think of what it looks like as if I had a mirror for the blood.  I hold my torso firm as I am able rocking in the creak of the cypress floor boards.  Sometimes she uses the candle wax, sometimes the ice.

She slides under me pushing my knees apart, running her hands up my thighs and placing my fingers on the top of my heels.  I bend my back with my chest pointed up to the ceiling.  My arms steady with my fingers like anchored Louisiana pilings.  She puts her mouth around my cock and hums a honey pot.

If I do not break the pose she will continue.  I learn to be as still as man can listening to her beneath me sitting up on an angle as I bend backwards.  My penis is fully erect giving second by second.  I hold out in two ways like aligned ideas.  Two faces stare at each other arms and shaft balance my heart to the ceiling.  Hold out.  If I come it is all over.  If I pull up and out of her mouth she will still have me, but I will know this battle with myself of manhood, of prone vulnerable and strong pressed I will have failed myself. 

In a dulcet tone she speaks a single word, “Release.”  She slides down upon her back to the floor.  I fold forward lifting my hands to my sacrum then down to the earth to the rounds of her breasts.  She aligns her pussy with my cock in the candlelight.  Her hands grab my hip bones as my fingers press the circumference of her tits.  She tilts up guiding my cock into her throng hot and wet gripping me.  She takes her palm and swipes her hand slowly up across my chin through my lips to the apex of my nose.  I could smell she had been fingering herself down before moist and dripping honey comb.  Blinded she wipes me clean with her mark like a soup ladle down my throat drinking droplets of her like dew breaking me.

We know I won’t take this fold from my eyes until she tells me.  When that moment comes I will look into those blue eyes of hers, whatever color her hair happens to be that month, but always those blue eyes.  Those I know I am the only man she has ever looked at like that giving me that, the most precious thing in the whole god damn room.  That is the thing about control it is not always the one giving orders that has it.