Through the looking-glass and out the other side. Hurled into the jaws of your own hard truth.
It's only when you no longer want something that it becomes yours to own.
This I know.
Last night, after a week-long dream, the old fantasies became reality in ways not even the most outrageous excesses of Hollywood have ever framed The Moment.
Sometime my life is like a John Hughes movie scripted by Michael Mann.
She was beautiful. Coffee skin, Almond eyes and cheekbones chiseled from raw amber. The Song of Solomon formed into flesh, a picture-perfect example of Neruda's dream of Quitratue.
Seriously. Until you trace your fingers over a belly like sheaves of wheat girdled by lilies, you just don't know.
She told me she had just come from Palestine; that she was a photojournalist; that she was bored. That nothing seems to matter in America once you've seen the Land Of Milk and Car Bombs. Her hips swayed slightly beneath my hands as she spoke, telling me we should steal a second helmet from someone who didn't need it as much as us, that we should ride out into the cold night and find a warm place at the heart of it all.
She was sleek. Jaded. Brilliant. Bored. Beautiful.
Just like me.
And I looked into her honeyed eyes and saw the night unfold in front of me. A story as poignant, unique, and beautiful as two strangers meeting in a deserted hotel bar. We would talk like strangers, dance like strangers, fuck like strangers, meet each other in the morning, on the other side of the flesh as strangers.
And the terrible thing is? It would have been fabulous. Blunt. Direct. Honest. Nothing in common but primal heat and meat and the burn of a competitor's sweat in your eyes. Lions and tigers and panthers and pumas tied neatly into a pretty little package of fuck. Silents smiles and the screams of clashing egos colliding like black trains in the middle of nowhere. The slick burn of smooth nails on your back and the aftertaste of no consequences at all.
I know that dance, and I'm a master of it. You may not know this, but your cunt does, or the one between your girlfriend's legs that you think you own. I know the dance, and I know the dancers; I have know them all already, I have known them all. And in the morning, after the tale is told and the ragged breath smooths into silent sleep, you wake from the dream of two being one. You kiss the stranger beside you, knowing that nothing of what had happened in the violent theater of the sheets had mattered at all. Your passion was an origami crane consumed by it's own fire; a faded phoenix reduces to grey ash, not to be reborn. So with the taste of ashes in your mouth, you cook them breakfast and carve another notch into the bedpost as they leave. The both of you alone, alone, alone.
I have knows the arms already, I have known them all.
A fantasy walked up to me last night and her hips moved like warm, slow water beneath my hands. And because I've known the eyes already, I did what Indigos do when the dream comes true too late: I nipped the soft shell of her ear, whispered "It was fun while it lasted", and spilled my drink down her back as I left.
I spent the rest of the night driving far too fast down one-way streets, and smoking cloves in cul-de-sacs, spitting out the butt ends of my days and ways, once I finally found the dead end I was searching for.
There's a metaphor in that. Or maybe a similitude.
Her hips moved like slow honey. Her eyes caught the light of candles that were not there. Her dorsal fin was raised high and proud. A lioness with a canary held inside a bone-white smile, smelling of heat and confidence. Tawny, beautiful, bored and sleek.
Just like me, but younger.
I have know the arms already, I have known them all...and at the end of the night, and at the dawning of the day, I will wait half a hundred years to see the rising sun's light shining on arms that are downed with light brown hair.
I am tired of sharks. And I find them tiresome.
And I continue to presume...
INRI
It's only when you no longer want something that it becomes yours to own.
This I know.
Last night, after a week-long dream, the old fantasies became reality in ways not even the most outrageous excesses of Hollywood have ever framed The Moment.
Sometime my life is like a John Hughes movie scripted by Michael Mann.
She was beautiful. Coffee skin, Almond eyes and cheekbones chiseled from raw amber. The Song of Solomon formed into flesh, a picture-perfect example of Neruda's dream of Quitratue.
Seriously. Until you trace your fingers over a belly like sheaves of wheat girdled by lilies, you just don't know.
She told me she had just come from Palestine; that she was a photojournalist; that she was bored. That nothing seems to matter in America once you've seen the Land Of Milk and Car Bombs. Her hips swayed slightly beneath my hands as she spoke, telling me we should steal a second helmet from someone who didn't need it as much as us, that we should ride out into the cold night and find a warm place at the heart of it all.
She was sleek. Jaded. Brilliant. Bored. Beautiful.
Just like me.
And I looked into her honeyed eyes and saw the night unfold in front of me. A story as poignant, unique, and beautiful as two strangers meeting in a deserted hotel bar. We would talk like strangers, dance like strangers, fuck like strangers, meet each other in the morning, on the other side of the flesh as strangers.
And the terrible thing is? It would have been fabulous. Blunt. Direct. Honest. Nothing in common but primal heat and meat and the burn of a competitor's sweat in your eyes. Lions and tigers and panthers and pumas tied neatly into a pretty little package of fuck. Silents smiles and the screams of clashing egos colliding like black trains in the middle of nowhere. The slick burn of smooth nails on your back and the aftertaste of no consequences at all.
I know that dance, and I'm a master of it. You may not know this, but your cunt does, or the one between your girlfriend's legs that you think you own. I know the dance, and I know the dancers; I have know them all already, I have known them all. And in the morning, after the tale is told and the ragged breath smooths into silent sleep, you wake from the dream of two being one. You kiss the stranger beside you, knowing that nothing of what had happened in the violent theater of the sheets had mattered at all. Your passion was an origami crane consumed by it's own fire; a faded phoenix reduces to grey ash, not to be reborn. So with the taste of ashes in your mouth, you cook them breakfast and carve another notch into the bedpost as they leave. The both of you alone, alone, alone.
I have knows the arms already, I have known them all.
A fantasy walked up to me last night and her hips moved like warm, slow water beneath my hands. And because I've known the eyes already, I did what Indigos do when the dream comes true too late: I nipped the soft shell of her ear, whispered "It was fun while it lasted", and spilled my drink down her back as I left.
I spent the rest of the night driving far too fast down one-way streets, and smoking cloves in cul-de-sacs, spitting out the butt ends of my days and ways, once I finally found the dead end I was searching for.
There's a metaphor in that. Or maybe a similitude.
Her hips moved like slow honey. Her eyes caught the light of candles that were not there. Her dorsal fin was raised high and proud. A lioness with a canary held inside a bone-white smile, smelling of heat and confidence. Tawny, beautiful, bored and sleek.
Just like me, but younger.
I have know the arms already, I have known them all...and at the end of the night, and at the dawning of the day, I will wait half a hundred years to see the rising sun's light shining on arms that are downed with light brown hair.
I am tired of sharks. And I find them tiresome.
And I continue to presume...
INRI
Strange times.
Methinks the planets are all fucked up.
But I owe you teh big time.