Birds, skirts and cigarettes

Her name was…

I do not quite recall.

Her smell intensely reminded me of the wet dreams I’d had about, well about her. Only in my dreams she had no face, only an outline, an odor, a possibility.

I had been travelling the day, in search of spiritual connection – and without success, when my best friend called and said I would be helping out at a friend’s warehouse for the weekend. The owner had decided to chase adventure, she was to leave the next day.

He had told me about her prior to the first feast of fleshy fathoms. I had no idea whose lair I was walking into as I passed the badly secured giant steel doors of Granualie’s Warehouse. Perhaps that was her name? Granualie… what do names matter anyway. Her name would not have altered the texture of her skin, the taste of her tongue in my mouth.

There were no discreet gestures… just flesh and passion, two strangers invading one another without care or remorse, with an audience though it was – she was spectacular . A mind fuck as well  as… the other kind.

Approach was clinical and I had no desire to know her name.

Perhaps that was it; the lack of desire for whatever juices in my body she was after. I had nothing but a thrust, a thump, a grunt and a cigarette before the taxi drew me back into the comfort of my untainted world. She wasn’t sublime or taboo, she was a fantastically easy artwork to ‘work’… to obtain. I wasn’t tame, I was loose… loose enough that her grip had no control over me; I had control over me… and she got nothing more out of me than what I chose to allow her to see and for that brief period of time; believe that she had me, even if for just a moment.

So what is the point in saying to a reader that I remember her name… It makes  no difference , desire was not with us, dream was more absent still.

I cannot lie dear reader, for a writer’s reputation is always more tainted than the dark of his actual character. This was an artwork, she was finely chiseled, her voice smooth, her breasts firm… but her well was empty … indeed she was an artwork, because I decided her one, I was her creator and she was nothing more than a vessel trimmed out to catch my attention for long enough… just long enough for me to find my feet again.

Now I stare at the artwork on her designated spot and my fancy evaporates as the last traces of sweat dry on her skin.

She didn’t see the winter start a little early this time around.

Winter, pulls me to just that one sound…






This is a painting I paint for you

In serious series of carving

A body art



This double-edged instrument

I call it paint brush

It revels only in red

the life-giving

the sore of scars


Lessons I thought I had mastered

Masters created in lonesome paths

But I am not cold


This fact confirmed by the warmth of my blood

Trickling softly down on itself

this artwork I created


I meditated on laws and flaws thereof

But I am simple

In the ways of hearts and souls

As simple

as the red blood_lust_broken_by_shikiariandrinight-d5euhbxon my chest


These spiders begin their conception by 

recollection of innocent crimes

These crimes we comitted were admitted by

energy-lots, delivered by rain drops of lip pairs

which moments ago confessed their greatest sin

It is a sin like no other

poorer than grime

richer than platinum

It awakens the deeper cores

pores opening

calling Them to surface

like a war-cry


This phenomenon that rests

to the left of every man’s chest

covers its fickle castle in glimmering shakes


Desire instills a limitless thrill

she whispers



seduces the Will which so 

desperately attempts to cut-off these moments


I struggle in the center of my own


cradled in the arms of sweat

of bliss

Inspiring whatever art is in me

to deliver the epitomy

of sweaty spiders


in the shape 

of scenes to come1091299_14534040_lz