like pressed garlic
creamy crushed
husk blown away,
i held her
forgetting the argument,
forgiveness and
playing with that
blonde hair
thinking of tomorrow
A poem that got put published in Rusty Truck 25 March 2012 in memory of Richard Brautigans birthday 30th January 1935
i have heard people say
they compare their love to a summers day,
but i will now say
i compare you to a late winters morn
bright sparkles full of beauty
a wind that blows taunting like you taunt me
ice frozen into mirrors hard yet easily broken,
just like the front you use to hide your emotions
and the first signs of spring adding energy
that animates your actions
but know while my heart beats
you will be more special than any winters day
and will have a special place in my heart
where you shall stay for eternity
by my son Ben who would love some feedback
[create a dream]
repetitive symbols and allegories
a habitual state of mind
within the complexity
of a certain strangeness,
it was a kiss/
significant to the external world
and not the four walled habitat
[interior body]
hearts and ideas created verses
spontaneous kiss
and delightful flesh
without absent things to deny,
music filled the simple sense
isolating the event
captured in his mind,
temptation a language of it’s own
an act of kiss/
[pure,impure]
moment cracked with resonance,
her eyes had claimed the
measurements of his passion,
without verbal matter to form
a leaf litter sheet
[fell upon her]
you discover in a kiss/
all named sciences describe
needs and imaginings ,
and in ache of after limbs,
aesthetic conditions
and those rules of attraction
will provide possibilities
for them
sidewalk city flesh
tattooed by footsteps, rain
and spat out gum,
the night seemed so small
it could be contained in a can,
as walking
with hands held as consideration
more than love,
beneath our feet
the city, this beast
harbored many grudges
that seeded into nature
love affairs
side alley muggings
and falling down drunk,
when we found a moment
of thought connecting,
we spoke,
our arrangement was one
created from physical neglect
and no love or lingering passion
would occur,
yet we parted with difficulty
returning to the oblique swathe
of our normal lives,
brought a fear
neither of us could confront
yet truth would not let us
concede to the other
new york at night – vivienne gucwa
violin bow cu through gelatin
as outstretched arm
folding it under her chin
tremor of strings felt in her loins
of love beyond passion
love beyond denial,
for this man much older
who watched damp eyed
each point and step
holding pose for sulfur flash
yet moonlight and day
better illuminated
caught in a dark place
yet so natural
she would ascend
imprinted and recognized
after camera covered away
she danced
knowing now also caught
on paper in charcoal
it may of been the end
but she reached to the future
moving expressively
beyond fantasy
Danseuse ajustant sa bretelle, 1895-96, Edgar Degas
Degas self portrait 1895
Ernest Chausson
Helen Hahn performs Ernest Chausson Poeme Op 25
legitimate was the legal nuance
given to his birth,
contested
shouted out
proven,
by twists of double helix,
it would be another day
to see the man
who out of ego made love
to most of the attractive women
he saw,
now there was a son
it could of been damaging,
he thought as walking through
station plaza,
he wanted it to be,
the mother
had mattered was a consequence
for all of seven months,
they had loved
with a deep assurance
that she considered to be a gesture
of forever,
he wanted to move on to the next,
now he wanted the boy and his mother,
they headed towards him
on the train
and waiting twenty minutes
was a pale shadow
of the twelve years,
he felt a sigh lengthen
and a brightness flare
kiss and whisper in her ear
hair dyed nocturnal sheen,
this clown without sanity
also had no morality,
for him love was the crazy light
of all dead angels,
his heart navigated slums of heaven,
babylon a drink to satisfy
and of those there where many,
at the door watched as she
burned on the brazier of sweetness,
leaving behind
he would go now and
make seven nymphs homeless,
in his mind words dwell,
a mirrors reflection
shows glance of vain apathy
downstairs and out
he went walking brisk
on soft sprung sidewalk,
there will come a last day
where pages no longer speak,
she was far behind
no turning back,
sorrow clung to his own breasts form
blood of his lust drained
pausing to turn into the bar
instead of heading home
will wait on tonight
with the affair
forgotten days found new meaning
flavored by excitement,
she would wax
that private place
no longer forlorn,
those telegraph wire tremors
shuddered messages across skin,
breath and kiss
find in intensity sharp reality,
her altar intended
with emotion rendered voice
pleaded for her to find
solace again with him,
he had hewn time
into a molded shape
of his own creation,
no intention to drive her away,
yet did,
lit a temptation fuse,
and she placed a fork in
the moon and tasted,
manic moments gazing skyward,
feeling naked flesh
lit by lunar extraction,
each minute as paused sand
desire the crown
between the two
sharp as thorns,
a clash of obligation
Now here is the opening to whet your appetite o f Submission Therapy
© November 2012 by Willsin Rowe and Katie Salidas
Master Sweet rested his hand back in my hair. “Natasha, it’s time to begin.”
He fisted that hand again, reigniting the heat in my scalp, while his other swept down my calf and stopped at my red-black two-toned peek-a-boo toe Louboutin pumps.
“What size do you wear, Natasha?” He drew the shoes off one at a time.
“Six.”
“Yet you have size eight feet.”
“Guys exaggerate their dicks, girls shrink their feet.”
He turned his already-tight fist, pulling a sharp breath into my lungs. “That kind of language is a privilege. One you’ve not earned.”
I couldn’t speak through the tension in my body, and I couldn’t nod without risking searing pain. Thankfully Master Sweet eased his grip just enough to allow my voice back.
“Yes.”
“You will address me as Master Sweet, or simply Master.”
“Yes, simply Master.” I tensed up, ready for him to squeeze again. Instead he shocked me by pushing forward, overbalancing me until I was on hands and knees, my cheek buried in the carpet. His pelvis nudged up against my ass, and he was definitely packing something hard in there.
He took a long, deep breath in. “I do so enjoy these early stages.”
“Yes, Master,” said the toadying redhead.
He brought his free hand back down to my feet. He appeared to still be addressing his off-sider. “Look at the deep lines her shoes have carved. The rich redness of constriction.”
“Yes, Master.”
His breath seemed to falter for a moment. “It will be exquisite to see this all over her body.”
All over my body? What exactly was that supposed to mean? I should have known better. Never agree to a deal without the terms being spelled out in a contract. Business 101. “Listen, Mister Sweets. Unconventional sex therapy is one thing, but no one is putting any kind of marks on my body. Are we clear?” I threw his condescending words back at him.
“Do you understand what it means to submit?”
His callous tone caught me off guard, but I quickly recovered.
“I have underlings for that.”
“So you see submission as a form of weakness.”
“Absolutely. I bow to no one.”
“You do now. “ The finality of his words was chilling.
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