Archive for hunger

The Imposter Seeks a Nightlight

Posted in Fun stuff, Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 17, 2018 by beautifulimposter

Patience is a virtue, one it could be said I possess in abundance. Then again, when you have all of the time that will ever be, there’s no rush and one can afford to stay very still for a very long time. Fortunately I don’t think that will be necessary.
I rest lightly upon the street light, coattails fluttering in the soft spring evening breeze. Anyone looking up would think it’s impossible for a man to be standing up here, unswaying, unmoving, and it is, so they don’t look and even if looking they wouldn’t believe their eyes. More people really should believe their eyes, they tend to work well as designed which is to see things, but for my purposes it’s just as well that they don’t.
Below, it’s late, the streets are sleepy, a week night as far as that kind if thing matters, just another night really. Few walk the streets, every once in a while a car will pass, grumbling softly to itself, muttering old beasts. The silence is almost complete, or as complete as can be expected…it’s going to be a good hunt, the conditions are just right. I allow myself to rub my hands together gleefully and my lips to curl up into my best Cheshire grin, the one I save for occasions like this. I practice it a lot, again, I have time on my side and it needs filling, it’s hungry.
A door opens and amber light spills upon the sidewalk like good whiskey, the flow of it carrying burbles of conversation, threads of music tangling with the strands of night air in complex and odd and wonderful tapestries. A handful of people exit, letting the door close, cutting the light off as with scissors, letting the more sober silence fill the bubble left by light and sound’s departure. They amble with the exuberance if youth, the pavements glittering beneath their feet, because they are fresh minted and their coin is accepted and there seems to be endless abundance in promise. I like young people quite well, they tinge everything about them with orange and rose and it’s a nice change.
Upon my perch, I crouch, hands upon the cold metal, leaning, eager, hungry. Soon, it will be soon and I must be ready. Their conversation drifts, rising, falling, the streams of it gathering and carrying them along. One of them tells a joke, or a tall tale, or some other token of amusement. This is it…
Laughter bursts forth, first one, then another and another, lips and throats issuing gleaming motes of light, shooting up, new stars climbing for the night sky. They fly swift, but I am swifter, long time hunter. I leap, coat whipping in the wind of my speed, bootheels clicking on roof tops, hands flickering deft and sure. Laughter tickles when you catch it, most people don’t know that. It wriggles too, like eager bright scaled fish. One by one, I snatch the gleams and shimmers, one handed, stuffing them into a mason jar. As a side note, mason jars are best for holding laughter, the lids are the only thing I’ve found tight enough, they were after all designed to hold preserves.
Over and under and around, flying fast and far, they swim through blue black night and I follow, dark salmon cleaving cleanly. Oh my but this is fun, each one plopping into the glass with a soft splash. Laughter, in its natural state is liquid, breath just warms it, allows it to fly. It would be easier by far to let it condense, gather into dew, but this is by far more fun. It’s brighter when it’s fresh, more concentrated. I swirl and jib along, almost, but not quite giggling in glee along with them, but I haven’t mastered giggling yet, that takes great skill, so I don’t. Still, I pursue joy fleeing gladly, oh, yes, what a merry chase…

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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.

Stranger Music

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

Leonard Cohen in the park
The sunlight turning to lechery
Battered pages spilling wanton
Naked women, thighs glistening
Birds no longer singing
A new symphony of moans and sobs
Throbbing in air rich with musk
As all the beautiful maladies are revealed
Treacheries, betrayals, all the blemishes
Weeping sores, raw and exposed
The poet laid bare, indecorous
Hairy and fumbling at flaccid genitals.

There’s a strange purity
Divinity in the lowly, the mean
Scriptures folded in soiled bedclothes
Love and hate in equal measure
Adorn kitchen tables
Holy litanies hidden in the whore’s
Undone lips as she staggers
Through the ancient dreaming Montreal streets
Wiping away the last drops
Of cold semen
Joining the lines of the desperate
Trailing in the shadows of cathedrals.

It all mingles, a riot
Grace sings, but it’s a dirty, low down blues
Hungry and drooling
Dignity given to the filthy act of living
Between the sparse frames
Of the poems falling
From his coat hem
Retreating to the tower further down the track,
Glorious traitor, broken voiced
Singing to the gluttons, the panders
To make them pure
Pouring over them sunlight like lechery
The rust and gold of stranger music.

Pear Shaped

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 13, 2015 by beautifulimposter

Flesh firm beneath my palms
Smooth yet subtly textured by dimples
Definition and depth rendered
By the shaping of nature’s vagaries
Ripe and full, begging caress
Of lips, the puncture of teeth
Spilling juices down my chin
Rolling the flavors of all summer,
All sweetness upon my slow tongue,
Licking at fingers suddenly sticky
Intoxicated, shuddering with each mouthful
Notes of trembling epicurean pleasures
Playing up and down the staircases
Of my vertebrae
Devouring something so lush
With unseemly greed
Such shapely fruit.

Hunger Strike

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on July 16, 2015 by beautifulimposter

Beneath the ribs exists only famine
Sepia photographs of faces not born
So much as carved, deep lines
Woodcuts of pain, of desperation
Hands wringing hat brims crumpled within
The clutch of gnarled fingers, brown like roots
Twisted, bitten by frost, clinging to spent earth
Grim as scrimshaw.

Throat is dust bowl dry
Mournful howling desolation
Voiceless, inarticulate, barren in dumbness
Scored slow yet deep by grit
Fine as ash, fine as marble dust swept up
From the sculptor’s floorboards
Thirst quenched only by salt
The taste of copper choking
On swallowed pennies.

Hands that seek the feasters
Watch only as fingers turn the bright ones
The revelers, the noisemakers
To sparrow and thrush cinders
Cupping ruin and tasting of it deep
All thought of food and light and laughter
Less than memory
As the landscape becomes flat and grey
Stretching out in dusty, panting gasps.

We are the starving,
Yet we have forgotten we knew how to eat
The food is there, succulent crackling
Juices run and drip
Spilling fruitless between fingers
Impotent to fill the gasping, gaping hole
We are content to eat the wrappers
Bellies crinkling with cellophane
As we smile politely and go hungry.

Devastation In A Little Black Dress

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 20, 2014 by beautifulimposter

Whiskey amber loose string guitar moan

Hips keeping metronome time

Tick-tocking limbic slow

Reptilian hind brain light switching

Steel wire tugging

Pulling bone deep

Fingers running wanton

Through chocolate ribbon hair

Lips curling silent visceral snarl

Revealing glimpse of dainty ivory

Lethal sharp hunger

A promise, a warning

Body free of eyes clinging tighter

Than silken fall of little black dress.

Alone, singular, proud

A naked blade

Opening every vein in the joint

Fresh blood washing clean

Any previous possession of
fingerprints

All futile claims upon flesh

Might as well attempt to hold

A dancing flame

One way or another

She will consume you

Swallowing whole every last inch

Licking the scraps clean

With a tongue that has no need

To ever taste your name.

Indifference drips

In every move whispers “fuck you”

To all the sweaty, panting boys

Desperate fumbling themselves

In the shadows cast

By her, flickering scarlet streak

Laughing as they spill useless seed

Down pant legs slobber soiled

Needless and heedless

Breaking them all to pieces.

You will never have her

Even if she permits you

To kneel quivering at her heel

Hands trembling supplicant

To the tease of her hem

All you will ever be

Is her victim

Don’t ever fucking forget it.