Category Archives: Desire

Flowers Wilt on the Fringe of the Crowd

Pick me for the dance, this is your last chance, soon the music dies.

A bouquet is thrown toward a roaring crowd of lonely people,

I am you, the other half of a twilight sky,

the part where the sun goes to cry.

Out on the fringe, where time gets singed,

as all those paralyzed moments of waiting

fade like wilted flowers.

 

Your hand, my hand, a memory and a dream intertwined.

Somewhere in another life we are together, perhaps a

parallel world exists, a place where all those petals picked

float down, landing in the hands of those who never

knew they were wanted.

She loved me,

she loved me not.

 

She did not want love at all,

only to be left alone in a glass vase

of unbreakable crystal.

 

Life breaks those who are fragile,

they fall from hands like stems

that smash on marble,

spilling the wine of potential.

 

You could spend your whole life sipping,

and never fully tasting,

or swallow it all in one shot and be done,

say all I needed has entered my bloodstream,

been detoxified through this one vein,

under pierced skin,

hard against the pulse of desire,

where this steady hand,

holds an empty syringe.

 

Birds refuse to fly in dark skies.

Sometimes the wind carries them

wing by wing,

as they balance against the storm,

a pair of blackbirds, separate from the

entire flock,

I watch them soar,

and think of us,

together,

swaying under the stars.

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Filed under Dark Romanticism, Dedication, Depression, Desire, Distance, dreams, Longing, Loss, Pain, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Canine

You enter others dreams, a sexy slip screen. When I close my eyes at night, I can hear you scream. You have entered into others without intending to. She tells me her dreams of you. You hold her tight from behind and squeeze the life out of her body, not so hard to do considering how small she is. I’m in love with a masculine mind trapped in the confines of a feminine body, nothing is more alluring than she who being so fragile in physical form, has her true power taken for granted or underestimated, her entire being is a massive understatement, and yet the way she grips your thigh in the dark, as she enters hard and deep, the way her pupils magnify what sliver of moonlight bleeds across your body as you stare down at her thrusting eyes, you think a woman is akin to a wolf and none would imagine the way she is capable of swallowing you alive. Then in the afterglow as she slowly dissolves away into the distance, you feel the remnants of her lingering with you, as though she has marked your body with her scent, to accentuate her territory. She strays but not from others, she strays from her self. This is what it means to love a shadow, her lips are the velvet slowness of a tortured animus. When she kisses you it hurts. It hurts where life begins, it hurts where life ends, but it is the hurt you crave from being enslaved, it is the hurt you beg her in silence to settle. It’s that secret swell of never spoken words, whose expressions die exquisite deaths, relentless deaths, contracting, swelling exasperating deaths, where bite marks and claw marks outline the places you were initiated. She doesn’t ever say it in the light of day, only in dark whispers, and you watch her with this strange mix of terror and desire, as she goes about her daily life, washing dishes, mending clothes, planting seeds that will one day grow into something beautiful. They mistake her for something tame, but you know better, you know better and you know worse and as she talks about the mundane, your mind travels back to dark territory, nothing she says or does is ordinary. You wear a goofy grin, and only when reality slaps you cold and hard across the face, do you realize how stupid you must look, walking around with an invisible leash on your hips, a magnet in between your thighs that draws you to the silver of her. Your friends say you must be whipped. But who are these friends? They are humans. They are human only human, and you are part canine.

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Filed under Bondage, Desire, dreams, Enslaved, Erotic, Fantasy, Poem, poetry, travel, writing

Photosynthesis

Dawn blood in, disfigures my soul. Bleeding light over shadow.
As blue as haze of eyes milky gaze.
Wolf prance, outstretched body, out held hand. Lick of jugular under white skin, baring of pearled sharpness, penetrating. Leopard lithe softly enters. Kaleidoscope on trees where glass fragments leaves, photosynthesis. Breathes in parenthesis. Green gem eyes. Velvet fingers. Locking hands downward in cave, concavity of loss, backwards in utero. Scream of displeasure where life enters.

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Filed under Death, Depression, Desire, Poem

Stained Thoughts

Never thought we’d dance together, the way your eyes gazed through me, leaving me to squirm self-consciously, wet from my walk in the rain. And you smiled that really dumb blonde smile, that said “blonde enough to have fun, but brunette enough to know better.”  The element of danger, the risk when I tightened my fist and you smiled the know better smile and chatted about the weather, the obvious, yes it’s wet, yes then, yes now, still. I pulled a pained face and your hand ran down my arm as I stared at the photographs on the desk, three grown children, your phone vibrating, the certainty of that gleam where I knew better this time, and I wondered how does one stay in a marriage so long, subdued. You penetrated me right through to my veins. I felt it up there on the makeshift mobile bed, spinning it’s wheels to a far away land, through the green blue heaven of your eyes, and the stillness of your lipstick silence, hiding the crease of age under beige. There in the travel clinic, with images of exotic world’s,  never ventured to, and the smell of coffee on your breath, taking me back to eleven, when I had a crush on the school librarian. Questions of where I’d planned to go, and when I might return again. From you, who vaccinated my body and contaminated my thoughts.

(About a travel clinic nurse.)

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Filed under Conversation, creative, Desire, Erotic, Fantasy, Humour, Loneliness, Longing, Needles, Poem, poetry, Sexuality

Without You

The whir of the air-conditoner,
the taste of cigarette smoke,
tea, honey, milk,
a warm inner glow, a cool exterior.

The lights from the building
across the way,
myself alone this way.

A book in hand,
opened to a world
that only exists
in my mind,
like you and I,
and our
verbose love.

What about silence
and the body,
with it’s vast vocabulary
of expressions
and meanings
that come as real
and true as this
moment, now
without you?

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Filed under Alone, Coffee & Tea, Crave, Desire, Emotions, Life, Longing, Love, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Self, Silence, Solitude, Soul, Technology, Truth

An Echo, A Stain

Beautiful refrain,
hearing her voice again,
an echo, a stain,
out from the depths of a sensual carnage.
She wrecks me with her cadence, 
(tone & pace)
the lyrical grace of her tongue,
the memory of what it did to you,
what she did, under cover of night,
cover of white sheets, so pristine,
in the same bed we shared years later,
when the wrinkle of time,
unwinds in my chest,
unravels from under me,
as tendrils, pushing me up,
pulling me under.
Pushing me up, pulling me down to you,
soft child of the tides,
releasing poison from her heart,
your cleanliness, makes me crave
no other sorrow.

Sleeping in a haunted bed, in a room full of ghosts,
I choke on your love for me.

“Dead to me, dead to me.
I could never be free of you,
without having to lose you.”

Extinguish a cigarette on her tongue,
watch her in motion under the light,
vinyl hands, overlapping
intravenous music,
skip and repeat, skip and repeat.
Her voice a drop of rain
in the desert heat,
the slow flow of euphoria,
the wreckless beauty of the ones
who left me in their seductive shadows,
finger inside of you, tongue in your mouth, synchronized
with the needle’s rhythm.

Is it possible I feel nothing because I’ve built a tolerance to heaven?

The next kiss or word could be a fatal overdose.

The sunflowers push up
from under your bed,
covering us in a yellow sea.
She stands over us naked,
spitting seeds.

We all have our versions of paradise.

You are mine.

You are mine

 παρακαλώ,
 παρακαλώ.

You are mine.

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Filed under Addiction, Beauty, Cleansed, Crave, creative, Desire, Emotions, Greek, Grief, Infatuation, Jealousy, Lesbian, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Needles, Pain, Poem, poetry, Purity, Sapphic, Sarah Kane, Sorrow

Undercurrents

Temporary transmutation, permeable, impermeable, opaque & translucent.
You paint my grey sky with dreams of colour! You alter my landscape irrevocably. It is deathless in it’s flight. Black bird of night and scorpions eyes. Everything changes, nothing dies. You are twilight tearing a hole through my cocoon, I feel I can bloom into white orchids, poison your throat with deep songs, right all the wrongs into music that stains silence like an elixir of the soul. I can be the antidote to make your laughter pure like sunsets over tragic world’s, where careless girls dangle their lifeless hands, mute to this orchestra in my blood. Touch me electric, steel blue currents break my pulse, trigger tears. Colour my lips purple with love that bruises inevitably. I want you in me, want to swim in endless oceans of you.

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Filed under Beauty, Bleed, creative, Dedication, Desire, dreams, Emotions, Fantasy, Infatuation, Jealousy, Longing, Love, Poem, Soul, writing

Infidelity

You are mother bird returned to nest,
the foreign scent from hands molest,
heart, smothered to death
No desire for love impure.

No hunt for further mating.
The tip of weaved sky
swallows
lust for life.

Contamination of body
on sheets of white
down.

Suicide.
Infanticide.

Kill your baby
Kiss your jugular.

Peck out the past
pluck out the future.

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Filed under Bird, Bleed, Broken, creative, Death, Desire, Poem

Patience

My hands I call patience,
so still they could be mistaken
for statues of hands.

Does the bee get anxious for the flower?

Imprint them in cement on the sidewalk of a big city,
tell them I was here and I waited to touch you.

Encase a star in a golden plaque.

I waited.

I would wait
until they aged and
cracked with loneliness,
like the bee whose wings cease
at the discovery of a rose.

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Filed under Dedication, Desire, dreams, Longing, Love, Poem

Towers

My hand gets a twitch where fastened truths of loving ladies lie, defeated. I grasp tightly unspoken fears, peering into future supernovas. The slow rise of my erection is perfection pumping blood into vessels, rushing to meet pain, marry it to joy, mix it with the death of past loves, pulling, pushing, breaking skin. Never did she look more sad and happy at the same moment, needles in my heart, ejecting rhythm in dark places.

Her and I hand in hand under the spotlight of a colossal city, staring up at the blinding sky.

She said she feared being rejected, I told her that’s how towers got erected, men, capitalism, and compensation for the smallness of what we are.

Towers topple, with a century’s guilt, only to be rebuilt again, rising up high enough to kiss the hand of God on the way into heaven.

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Filed under creative, Desire, Poem, poetry, Sexuality, Time, Tragedy, writing

Too Sober

Too sober to fuck stars bright so they fade, fade in the night without gold. 

Too close to want to hold if you see in me this black sky,
that makes wishes die.

” But I will turn my eyes from you  
 As women turn to put away 
The jewels they have worn at night  
And cannot wear in sober day.”

C. Barthelette 
S. Teasdale

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Filed under creative, Desire, Grief, Loss, Pain, Poem, poetry, Rhyme, Sex, Sexuality, Sobriety, Sorrow, Stars, writing

Blason

Eyes richer than gold, with their velvet fold of emerald, and lips that leave rubies envious of ruddy days, days beholden to such fools with jewels. I want to excavate the ruins of you with the patience of a cautious archaeologist in search of the truth to the marvelous mystery of your soul, hidden deep, like pearls of lustrous wonder, those sparkling  stars in the sea of your body that I discover on my slow descent to paradise.

“in the realm of you, my child-like fingers in paste, until qualified for pearl, learned gem tactics in the sands of a slowly awakening memory, an amethyst remembrance of treasurous times.” Emily said and I revised.

It’s true, I’m but a foolish child at the shores of you.

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Filed under Beauty, Blason, Colours, creative, Desire, Emily Dickinson, Longing, Love, Poem, poetry, Sapphic, Sea, Sex, writing

Invincible

Blood rushed
Aphrodite blushed.
And the morning rain fell
outside my window.

I recall trying to hook a minnow on a line when I was about nine. My grandfather said this was what one did to lure the bigger fish one hoped to catch, they made a splash and their silver slip of fear is what drew the hungry ones near. So we gathered round and waited by the water. The white rush of waves and the violent current roaring past made it all seem so fast, but the waiting and the hunger persisted. Yet he insisted on being still. My grandfather had the patience of granite on a day of rain, which promised an arch of colour in the grey distance of the sky. Why couldn’t I be like that man? He used to hold vigil with the battalion. When his father died, they hailed him a hero of the skies and named a lake after him here in Manitoba “Lake Barthelette” He spoke broken French and then with a swift pull he filled the bucket of ice with our breakfast. I recall huddling around the fire for warmth and black tea, he always drank his tea so strong. Strength and patience were two of his greatest attributes. Up until a few years ago he was still out catching pickerel, picking wild blueberries and chanterelles, hunting a deer or a rabbit, gathering nuts and fixing something with his rough hands…

Perhaps I have that, the power of lightening bolts in my hands on rainy spring mornings, and the patience of granite as I try to silence this hunger swimming inside of me, silvery and uncatchable. The wave of loneliness overlaps the wave of ecstasy, causing a rush that pulls me under into deep places, where emerging I regain my breath as I ponder life and death before the big swell drowns out my consciousness.

Blood rushed
Aphrodite blushed.
And the morning rain fell
outside my window

I’m a helpless minnow striving to break free, blood gushing out of me as they track my metallic scent in the water, mercurial, rust coloured and dangling from a hook, this hook that holds me between life and death as the hungry world centers in with a bone-chilling calm in the midst of all this chaos. I am of the sea, of algae and long vines emerging from entwined blackness, pulling me back to the watery remembrance of a  wilderness where I was once invincible.

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Filed under Adventure, Bleed, Chaos, Colours, Control, creative, Death, Desire, Drowning, Erotic, Feast, Fish, Freedom, Immortal, Life, Longing, Memory, Mortality, Nostalgia, Poem

All passion spent

They thought we might be the death of eachother. I could hardly stand to breathe without her body. We tried to abstain, I tried to keep her away, at arms length, but she couldn’t obey. One night her partner lay sleeping in his bed as she read poems to me, and something in the seriousness of her expression made me unable to resist her. We were on a cast iron bed in the adjoining room, every muscle flex caused the bed to creak. I put my hand on her mouth to silence her, but her moan escaped and awakened him. Just a look from her was enough to make me cum, the anticipation of her touch sent comets shooting through me. By the time her skin touched mine they exploded into the night like a million beams of light, blinding me with stars. Maybe it was the fear of being caught that thrilled me, or the way her eyes were etched with green flecks of brilliance and her mouth seemed carved out perfectly to fit mine. One day his relatives were visiting from America and they stepped out while she was cooking dinner, promising to return in time to eat. In their funny Chicago accents they said “dinner smells mahvelous, see you soon.” The moment they drove away I couldn’t keep my thoughts at bay. She was sitting on the sofa drinking a glass of red wine, wearing a white apron, stained with the blood of a wild animal. She leaned into me and whispered that her loins ached as she ran her hand down my leg, I felt the earth break and tremble. She took my hand and led me in the bedroom. Our screams filled the small old house as the potatoes boiled over on the stove and the windows went foggy from the steam. We lay gasping by eachother’s side as the car pulled into the driveway and we ran to make ourselves more presentable, less mangled by desire. They were so honoured to be eating a traditional, Aboriginal meal. As they commented on how delicious it was, it took all my strength not to laugh at the situation, their accents and serious faces, her messy hair and legs lined with scratches, as though she had fought and killed this massive beast alone. I always hoped we hadn’t left evidence of our passion anywhere, but if we did, they seemed to overlook it.

Another time she came to see me at the apartment where I was staying. She held the keys to her truck in her hand as she stood in the hallway explaining the situation. She was carrying crates of books from their house and lining the back room with her possessions, promising to leave, to come be with me. Her hair fell in waves down her shoulders, her tightly toned legs shone from the force of her effort, and she stood there with a slight smirk, eyes shaded from the sun. I walked up and claimed her lips, grasping her wrist I told her to stay and she chased me as I pulled her keys away. She fell on the bed, wrestling me down as she tried to pry my hand open. Her sex pushed against mine and I dropped the keys, she stared at the keys, then back at me while I kissed her. Our clothes were unnecessary restraints that kept our skin from eachother. Later as we lay covered by dew and lust, with laboured breaths suddenly we heard footsteps ascending the stairs. The door opened and we struggled to dress, it was so obvious. My brother walked in with my cousin and they found us that way, completely ravaged. The entire place breathed sex. It seemed to follow us everywhere; at all hours, in open spaces, behind bathroom doors, at the homes of relatives & friends, everywhere we went got marked by our undying passion for eachother and our inability to resist. Her hands belonged to my body and mine to hers. It took more than a decade to kill, but we outlived it. Others weren’t so fortunate.

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Filed under Bondage, Control, Dance, Desire, Drowning, Erotic, Infatuation, Intimacy, Longing, Love, Memory, Nostalgia, Pain, Poem, poetry, Sex, Sexuality, writing

For us

I’d like to get some platform boots, a silky pair of black nylons and a strapless strapon. Red and full is how I feel when I see your hard nipple & thirsty mouth, want to take a slow trip South, biting and licking my way through your valleys to the highest peak of pleasure in you, in me, where it hurts, transmit this anti into climax, encircle your shiny pearl with my tongue, the swirl of paradox, the soft endless ness of your velvet body when I enter you slow, rhythmic, then gradually harder, until I need to hold your braided hair, pulling on the reins of paradise, each thrust pushing deeper into you, into me, I need your eyes on mine, so I can journey back and forth between those  parallel worlds where you are both woman and girl. My soul pulsing into that death, that emptiness, that place at the threshold, where there’s no turning back. Brush away the butterfly fluttering in me so constantly, the bird trapped in my ribcage, the viper in my spine, all these things that twist & tangle and unwind me, set them free for you, for us

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Filed under Bondage, Death, Desire, Erotic, Fantasy, Freedom, Lesbian, Longing, Love, Poem, poetry, Repressed, Sapphic, Sex, Soul, Strapless Strapon, travel, writing