Sharp

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , on November 9, 2015 by beautifulimposter

Don’t give me greeting card love
I’m done with it, sick to death
Of meet cute movie soft lighting filter
Happily ever afters but only
After some contrived mis-understanding,
A few discreet tears, nothing that will damage
The perfection of the lover’s pretty plastics faces.

No, I want love that pushes into the gut
Like a dull, rusty saw blade
The one that you want to cut yourself on
The one that is worth suffering for
A lover made of scalpel blades
Something sharp cutting down to the bone
The sword you throw your heart upon.

I don’t think to love you have to suffer
Yet it is the love you would cut yourself on
That you would nurture its roots
With your bright blood,
That’s the one to cling to
The love worth dying for is, ultimately
The one worth living for too.

A Lost Art

Posted in Fun stuff, Journal, Prose, Social Commentary with tags , , , , , , , , , , on November 1, 2015 by beautifulimposter

I miss making out. Not just because I don’t have anyone physically in my life at the moment to make out with. I have someone with whom I would very much like to in point of fact, but that current circumstances prevent such delightful intimacy. It’s not just that though, it’s the fact that even within the context of a romantic relationship at a certain point I think we kind if stop making out. Once we have “grown up” and have had a few partners it seems, in my experience at least, that any initiation of kissing and petting just leads to sex. It’s almost a foregone conclusion, like we somehow get into the mindset that it has to go all the way all of the time.
I get that to a certain extent. When you’re younger, making out is your baby steps, how you learn the wonders and joys and in some cases mortifying embarrassment of sex. It’s that first toe so to speak in the deep and mysterious waters of being with another person, exploring an uncharted, unknown continent with nervous, sweaty, fumbling hands. There were limits, because either you, or your partner, or both weren’t ready yet to just dive in. There were also practical reasons, like adults being around and frowning on the same things they used to get up to for some reason I’ve never been able to understand. All of that though kind of goes away after a while. We all get to that point where we get at least somewhat comfortable with our desires, we know what we want and roughly how to go about doing it and so, when there is opportunity and we’ve confirmed everyone is willing, there’s no need to stop. Why make yourself suffer that agony of boiling, nearly violent frustration when you have someone perfectly willing to give and get that release right?
There’s something to be said for that. I mean, I remember very clearly spending HOURS in my bedroom with my first girlfriend, laying on my bed, lips chapped, jaws aching, various bits rubbing together and possibly getting rub burn. By the end of one of our marathons, no matter how sublimely enjoyable I would, walking her home, have to walk very, very delicately to in no way show how much pain I was in from having an erection for what amounted to half a shift of a work day without it serving its intended purpose. Now, here is where I’m going to point out, I’m not trying to garner any sympathy with this, I’m just relating the facts, it bloody fucking hurt like I’d been kicked in the groin. I’m sure my girlfriend endured similar discomforts, was aching just as badly, but I can only faithfully report my particular symptoms. Bottom line being, while making out was definitely a great deal of fun, it did get us both worked up and wanting more and why put yourself through that when you don’t have to?
Because it is fun, that’s why. Because it does leave you wanting more, and that anticipation can make any future coupling that much more intense. Because sometimes it is still such a wonderful thing to let your hands roam over your lover’s body without urgency, just loving the feel of them, savoring it without that finish line of fucking barreling down on you. It has kind of made me both sad and wistful over the years that just making out kind of gets put aside with all the rest of youth, often gets viewed as something childish and not becoming of an adult. I think we get it into our heads that once we are grown ups, we have to be that all of the time and that something like making out almost becomes beneath our dignity.
That’s such a shame to me though. I love the thought of laying on the couch with my girl, a movie on so we can at least pretend we were watching, kissing with just that perfect amount of tongue, the kind of kissing you can keep up forever, no sprinting, all long distance, the air full of the soft sounds of wetness and lip smacking and the whispering rustling of hands over clothes and clothes against each other. Something languorous, lazy, sensual, even playful. It could lead to more, or it could just settle back down into cuddling, only to start back up again, or it could just as easily lead to falling asleep together. That to me is my idea of heaven.
Unfortunately, at least in my relationships, once that ball got rolling it inevitably ended up being naked and needing to clean up. I am not going to speak for anyone else out there, but in talking with others of like vintage to myself, this seems to be a fairly common state of affairs. Well, I for one think making out should in fact be re-instituted to its rightful place in the roster of adulting fun and games. If you’re lucky enough to have someone to do it with in your life right now, give it a try. There is something to be said for reclaiming a bit of lost innocence and delayed gratification.

Reclamation

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on November 1, 2015 by beautifulimposter

I love the girl who’s spine is cracked
Bent backwards, a paperback worn out
Pages torn and crumpled from being tossed
So casually into forgotten corners
I smooth out the creases as best I can
Holding her gently, with reverence
Because I don’t think anyone has really taken the time
To read her treasures, the wealth of her soul
There are such verses beneath her vellum skin
Well worth a lifetimes devoted study
My lips forming the words of her worshipful
As mystic and holy as psalms.

She’s a mis-matched set of china
Porcelain chipped, glaze a web of cracks
Yet there is still beauty, history in each disparate piece
Volumes of thought and memory
Coded in the Braille of stretch marks,
Passages to be read in the fine lines
Sculpting a mouth of complex curvature
Furrows and wrinkles speaking beautifully
In silent language there for those willing
To watch and learn.

Together we are fixed in brokenness
Not whole but certainly not less
A pair of old chairs, second hand end table and reclaimed lamp
Things discarded, unwanted, recovered
Each other’s hands finding something
To save one another from the curbside
Or rubbish bin, to be taken in
Made into cherished heirlooms
By hands bent with love, bringing burnished luster
To scar tissue patina.

Old is not bereft of value,
They do say one’s garbage can be
Someone’s treasure, you just have to have the right eye
A place and a use and a corner of your heart
That needs what only that one
Will give to it.

I Would Make My Words My Hands

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 30, 2015 by beautifulimposter

The taste of your pulse beneath my tongue
Rising tempo, trembling, expectant
There is a gulf of hunger between the beats
A hopeless mingling desperation
Of devoured and devouring
A chaos of hands and mouths
Cream streaked with crimson
The tension of arches
Dreaming of endless, quivering, slavering ache
Clenching, reckless spasms
Symphonies played out upon raw sting nerves
Throats scraped and seared
Tumbling, tangled, over and under and over again
To lay in the end upon breasts oiled with sweat
Spent so utterly in the only fashion
Worth such precious coin.

Tears To Gold

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on October 27, 2015 by beautifulimposter

The rain is falling like tears broken open by a sieve
So fine that it looks as though the street lamps
Are bleeding strands of gold
Something magical pouring out of
An otherwise ordinary night
A little bit of wonder obtruding
Upon the drab skirts of life.

So gold drips onto my lips,
Moistening parched, cracked skin,
I’ve been speaking you poems for days
Breathless into the dark,
Tongue unreeling slow soft hymns
Out of your name and the secrets behind your smile
Because that is the purpose it learned
When you put your “I love you” upon it.

Now, all my speech tastes of you,
My breath conjures your shape out of moonlight
I have become this mad fool singing in the rain
Confounded by newfound joy
A fresh, new drunkard drinking deep
From the honey you poor down upon
Such impoverished souls as mine.

It’s a beautiful slavery
The way you’ve bound me up
Cleaving your grace to my limping
Making whole what was sundered
Laying your hand upon my brow
Turning my downcast eyes to light
Turning grey tears into gold.

Language Isnt Always Verbal

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on October 25, 2015 by beautifulimposter

I want to teach you
The language of my hands
For they can at times
Be so very much more eloquent than I
More subtle than my sometimes clumsy tongue
Less prone to stumbling or misstep.

Every touch can be a poem
There are volumes written
Upon the lines of palms
Comfort in the creases, reassurance
Love, desire, solace, all find voice
Buried in fingerprints.

All that I cannot speak
In the space where words fail
Or have not the proper definition
Let my hands tell you
By caress or grasp
Variations of pressure or attitude
In perfect, silent eloquence.

That way, even the simple
Lacing of fingers twining
In knots of flesh and bone and nerve
Can be a conversation
Between our pulse
The unsayable become known
Described perfectly
As a slight squeeze.

The Rockbiter’s Riddle

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on October 24, 2015 by beautifulimposter

“They look like big, good, strong hands,
Don’t they?”
I’m still looking for the answer
It seems my life could be defined
In quotations, movie lines
Passages, verses and choruses
Other’s words stitched into my skin
Made up entirely, defined by the parameters
Of other lives, the stories someone else was telling.

So I am The Rockbiter
Staring into open palms, flexing crumbling digits
Wanting to be stone, willing my gaze
To become Medusa’s, turning weak flesh
Into something hard, enduring
Able to hold up all of the everything
Because that was my purpose
The one thing I always felt I could be good for
Living to be the rock upon which those I loved
Could build themselves up.

Yet rock was the last thing I was
More sand, or badly fired pottery
Feet of clay indeed, broken off at the ankles
Wobbling on jagged stumps, becoming something
Sad and comic, a lost Marx Brother
Leaning drunken this way and that
Beneath teetering dishes and platters
Desperately staving off the inevitable crash
Followed by sad little tinkle as the last spoon
Hits the ground.

So now I can’t help but wonder again
If I can convince myself of that myth of purpose
Are they worthy, these poor hands
Ink stained and bloody
Are they enough
I always thought they could be but I have been so very wrong
I’m asking you now, holding them up
Because I think you could give me an answer I’d believe
Is that what they are, because I hope so.