Untitled (Fragments of a Peripheral Encounter)
Spontaneous him,
"What are you listening to?"
"Tom Waits."
Russian accent thick
Lips dreaming of sensual bliss
His tra que chai entreats
More...
"Sad diner music?"
"Hardly. Death disco for dreamers."
Mindfuck.
She shows her architecture books.
And notices his eyes twinkle
At the loftiness of ceilings.
"I despise anything Victorian,
save rocking chairs, she offers.
People get lost in rocking chairs."
"I agree. They're much like thunderstorms.
They complement each other."
Dreamers don't part easily.
They merely continue to astonish.
"Let's walk and hope for a thunderstorm."
"And get lost."
As they walk, she says something about planets.
How small they are. How far away.
How there's nothing ahead.
And how the shadows pass unseen.
Later that night,
they fuck in a contest of infamy,
smoldering in dislocated intimacy,
while this poems droops
shy and unseen
under the bed.
And they loved (probably too strong a word)
for the next 11 days.
"What are you listening to?"
"Tom Waits."
Russian accent thick
Lips dreaming of sensual bliss
His tra que chai entreats
More...
"Sad diner music?"
"Hardly. Death disco for dreamers."
Mindfuck.
She shows her architecture books.
And notices his eyes twinkle
At the loftiness of ceilings.
"I despise anything Victorian,
save rocking chairs, she offers.
People get lost in rocking chairs."
"I agree. They're much like thunderstorms.
They complement each other."
Dreamers don't part easily.
They merely continue to astonish.
"Let's walk and hope for a thunderstorm."
"And get lost."
As they walk, she says something about planets.
How small they are. How far away.
How there's nothing ahead.
And how the shadows pass unseen.
Later that night,
they fuck in a contest of infamy,
smoldering in dislocated intimacy,
while this poems droops
shy and unseen
under the bed.
And they loved (probably too strong a word)
for the next 11 days.
posted by ... at 7:45 PM
13 Comments:
"they fuck in a contest of infamy"
my oh my. i wish that i had thought of that.
this makes me think back to when trans was trans and not {illyria} and blogging was seductive.
love it.
Mindfuck! Wooow. Now, I wish, I wish. But then there is always an enduring, endearing sadness in every act of beauty, however primal it is. Very nice, man. A contest of infamy..hmm..leaves me wondering and wandering to find one such. Hope you are keeping well.
cj - Thanks for the compliment.
And are you saying that {illyria}'s become missionary with the lights off? Or is that what I'm saying now?
Erm, I think I'm getting us both in trouble now.
sz - But the great thing about those primal acts is there's no thinking involved. Just instinct. Or what if the mindfuck accompanies... mmmm.
I think we're all wandering, wondering for that contest. Hopefully you find yours.
And I'm keeping well. I wish you likewise.
(strange how bloggers only want me for my body. LOL.) you adorable bunches of sillies you. nowadays, only a deserving few are privy to my devastating sensuality.
incidentally, Ô¿Ô, i find "love" much too lacking a word for certain intense feelings. and missionary is hardly intense. it's like cheap transportation. you go by way of bumpy road, sure, but it gets you there.
I was hoping you'd punish me, {illyria}. :)
Anyway, your comment about the word "love" made me think of two things I've read that I found profoundly moving and left an indelible impression upon me.
The first is from "The Winter of Our Discontent" by John Steinbeck. The scene plays out like this:
The protaganist, Ethan, is in bed ruminating his life one morning while his wife is sleeping beside him. He looks over and notices the traces of a faint smile on her lips as she sleeps. He begins to wonder what she's dreaming about; what makes her happy; why she seems to smile in her sleep. The sun begins to etch through the curtains, she stirs, and he wonders how thoroughly we can understand another person.
*segue into the second scene*
This is from a writer who will remain nameless:
There's an empty room. The wind is teasing the curtains.
...and if anyone asks...only the silent windowsills know how fiercely you've lived, how fiercely you've loved, never go gently.
never go gently, indeed. once you've accomplished that, at least once in your life, you can rest in peace.
Maybe some people will rest in peace.
Your piano must have been drinking as your poem hid under the bed.
Better my piano than me, I'd say!
This comment has been removed by the author.
I'm uncertain of what you're referring to, gel. The deleted comment above, perhaps? Whatever the case, you needn't apologize. I haven't been bothered by anything here in the least.
why is it always deja vu when I read you?
'loved' seems appropriate somehow- whether over or understated
Sometimes you surprise me.
Or maybe I'm just repetitive...repetitive.
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