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October 13, 2009
Sweat soaked sweet necter...........
I used to draw an Indian girl standing high on top of a rock, with her torso naked, and her hair silky blak flowing in air. The idea of loss had been within me , hurling down further , moving deeper, clear as it could, I was a fatalist at age six . Friday afternoons would push its nails under your skin, like a sky lost in gray dark of a storm and all that creeps inside like a disease that gnaws on you , you become scattered in pieces and yet proceed to move side by side there is a longing in you, day lights seems so faraway.
Quiet heat of afternoons when sun was many blinks away. There was a stilness in the air-- like the day had stopped in its track, dripping slowly . Life was moving away, walking steady in deliberate steps , shadows extending long in whispers and murmers of closed doors, humid windows and dizzy spells of urges , hands that tripped underneath her blouse, greedy femmes, oh curiosity we met in long quiet fternoons of girls with long hair lost in the teetering rythem of a certain growth, as I touched their skin and sniffed their air of sweat soaked sweet necter, pure and clean, I was charmed , bewitched by my own witchery , floating in beauty as the green frog smiled at the moth and licked its lips eyeing a fly at distance, humid , as the yellow walls swelled in patches.
we swam in silence . moving still, moving motionless, floating. The dragon was sleep and there was adventure behind every tree --places to see were we could disrobe and show our young penisses, laughing at each other
knowing the slippery flesh of sin, innocent devouring sin waking under our skin, poking sleepy yet waking pushing,
the secret was beyond , further down maybe behind the bushes of wild roses bleeding in their crimson dark rivers floating inside every blossom they bloomed. I kissed her pushing my frame slender on her with my head to the side
like the boy on the screen way up in black and white. gently pressing my lips on hers feeling her warm breath. and how sweet, how tender, how precious, ...........................the marbles green, teal yellow, clouded marbles sleek to touch, in their glassy indifference cold marbles rolling on the rug toward different corners, did i open my hand did I let them go, how did the hour pass, clouds ran trough the sky and the pink dark blue gray horizon rolled toward the west in one swift motion. I rolled the film in the camera, lookin through the lenz, I tries to catch it and hold it so I could look back. with my face arched in my palm , covered by my fingers.........
There were more distances between the walls, the walls were taller made of straw and mudd thick as they were tall...........The trees though hid the souls that roamed in the garden at night you could see their etheral frames moving amongst the dark spaces as they pushed the air and the branches trembled , some leaves fell . we stood behind the window pane and shivered cold worried if they saw us and if they should come to take us away behind the last bush that crowded the end of the garden in that dead space, were air stood still and moth grow, where every thing ended in a bare emplty halt . The darkness started there and poured like a fog as it covered all. The emptiness, horrifying, the stilness eerie. We all believed that you could get caught in that space and get carried away beyound the walls or maybe inside, like a piece of straw, mud, stone caught, left forever, motionless, with your mouth open eyes buldged in fright , shouting soundless wrapped in silence.
Posted by Idinraha at October 13, 2009 03:10 PM