Dissonance

I want a lot of things. I want to read. I want to write. I wanna call up a homie, spark a bowl, sit back & talk about life. I want to fast forward time, and I want it to rewind. I don’t want to search, but there’s things I need to find. I want to quit trying. I want to be content with where I’m going, where I’m at without judgement or strife. I want to be alone. Why won’t somebody hit my line? I want him to text me first. I want a commitment. I want to be promiscuous, our relationship inconspicuous. I wanna listen to the rain. I need some sunshine. I want to travel but… where should I reside? I want to save money. There’s so many things I need to buy! I don’t want to know the truth. I find comfort in believing lies. I want to be happy. My best work is the fruit of depression. I want to be a teacher. Too bad I’m busy learning a lesson. I want to be me. I want to be free. I really want a cookie, but I’d rather eat the dough. You know what I want more than anything at all? I want everyone to know my name while I remain unknown.

 

Mirages/Limits

You could move half way across the world tonight if you wanted.

_________Or you could chill at the spot, break something down, and get blunted.

See the thing about people that’s funny—

________we forget we’re free.

We’re so quick to believe these mirages of limits

________that we try to control life instead of sit back and live it.

If only for a moment

I want you in my bed, but more than that, I want you in my head. Dance with my thoughts as they twirl through emotion. If I’m the needle, you’re the thread so, even if only for this moment, our realities are interwoven. Something like a potion is your energy. Please take these words as a token that I will never leave you with the truth unspoken. You are more than a simple memory. If this bond is ever broken, just know the reminiscence will be reverie.

The Story of the Somnophiliac


They were friends more than lovers. Still, every night, the pair slept together wrapped tightly in each other’s arms. It was only on rare nights he would penetrate her. This confused the woman, so used to men taking advantage of her sex. Here she was, lying naked every night– a woman in the flesh, ready to take his length at any moment. The man’s advances, though few and far between, always left the woman with quivering legs and the mattress puddled with her nectar. But the woman could never make the man finish. Often he would ask her to lay on her belly to stroke himself and come on the small of her back. But he had never come inside the woman. One night, she began to weep. Perplexed and stripped of her womanhood, she had tried many things to stimulate his desire, but to no avail. So she wept, and wept and wept. Nothing could comfort the woman but truth. What was wrong with her sex? After many tears the man admitted his cruel addiction. Incessantly he watches women on the screen insert household objects into her vagina. Cucumbers, razors, broom sticks. This ignited curiosity and an insatiable desire in the woman to please the man. She would do anything just to make him come. She let him insert in her a spatula. She let him insert in her a shower head, even a shower rod. Still, the man was understimulated and the woman’s desire to please him stronger than ever. The next night, when the man entered her room, she was naked, riding the bed post. Instantly he dropped his trousers to the floor and began toying with himself. She rode the bed post harder as he watched, harder as he tugged on his penis. He could not stand it any longer, he had to be inside her! The man threw her backwards onto the bed, jumped on top of her, ripped open her thighs and hastily entered her. For the first time, he came inside her. But the woman was not pleased. His penis no longer fulfilled her sexual desires. She craved other things now, other things inside of her. Of all the objects inserted in her, the bed post was her favorite, perhaps because she was in total control, total domination. Every morning when the man left for work, the woman would strip herself down, crawl to the foot of the bed, and climb on top of the bed post. Harder and deeper she rode it, deeper than it had ever been until it penetrated up through her entire body, shanking her to death from the inside. Returning from work the man walked in her room and found her limp body sitting atop the bed post. He wept for a moment, blaming the death of his lover on his own sexual fantasies. But something about her position awakened his sex. He slowly raised her from the post and laid her on the bed. The man gathered anything he could find to insert into her lips. Up and down, in and out he penetrated her with household items. He left her body there for several days, each night obsessing over a different object he would use to fill her. But this was not enough. Something about her stiff limbs and lack of consciousness aroused in him a great sexual desire. He replayed in his head the image of her riding the bed post and was erect in an instant. The man inserted his length into the corpse. He came once, and again, and for a third time, never having felt this type of pleasure before. For some time, he repeated this act until he began to bore of the same woman night after night. He needed a new lover, but his desire now only satiated by the cold insides of a woman’s corpse. So he set out to find his next partner.
(Portrait by George Segal)

sleepwatching

Studying the rhythm of your breath, I watch as the sheets rise and fall from your tattooed chest. The peculiar way you sleep, entangling your body with mine as a rope’s yarn are intertwined, comforts and protects with a delicate security. What’s on your mind? What of your dreams? These questions yet have no answers, and with that I am serene, for our ebb and flow is slower than most. Concrete, though, takes time to solidify so, for now, I continue to observe you in your most vulnerable state, awaiting but not rushing the hour of your wake.

They can’t take my soul.

Temptation surrounds us every minute of every day. Too often times we give in, believing we have no control over our lives like characters in a play. But me, I’ve made the decision – to live through intention, act in favor of only my mission. They can’t take my soul. They can’t tell me where to go. “Take a right!,” they said. But if I feel it so deeply in my heart to take a left, then believe me, left I will go. If they don’t like it, slay my body! Leave me there to rest until my heart has poured out all the blood is has ever bled. Maybe another world needs me, so please, set me free. At least, that way, I’ll die an honorable death.

The Greatest Taboo is that I’m Lonely Too

tmp_28695-IMG_20170106_1423012023685545.jpgOn a bitter winters eve a woman took a lone stroll around the lake. Approaching the bench with a troubled look on her face, the bench mustered the courage to speak to the woman. “I offer this resting place for you to sit and gaze at the beauty of the moment, slow your pace for a while. Be alone, here, with me.” (silence) “What did you notice? Has your mind opened? Do you feel the hug of the breeze, hear the calls of the geese as they search for their prey just underneath the surface of the lake?”
The woman replied, “What I noticed, bench, is that you are lonely. You offer rest & a space to meditate for the passersby who never give but always take. I, however, am not the same, for I am lonely too. You needed me just as much as I needed you. But that’s how the world works, isn’t it? Two souls cross paths at the perfect time, reminding us we’re not alone, just lost too deep in our own endless minds. So take this piece of my energy, pass it on to the next soul that, too, is feeling lonely. And I’ll give your wisdom to someone in a rush to remind them that now is always enough. If ever again I start to feel all alone, I’ll think of you, bench, and hope that you too can see yourself for what you truly are. You’re more than a bench. You’re a beautiful throne.”

(Original photograph)