Horton-Scorton
Bluelighter
I often wonder whether such dreams come true. And whether I sit in intercourse with the real or instead masturbate, alone and sick, hand-in-hand with fallacy and deception. Oh, when my eyes well up like volcanoes engorged and ready to cum, then do I pray. Pitifully, nearly choking, never with words. My poise, that of the victim.
The sense of touch, the basic impression, running fortresses and mappings down my ribs and spine. To fall inside an illusory hall, inside of sleep, here, mesmerized, promised, tickled, tantalized.
I want to eat her. I want to press into her. I want to entangle my thoughts, to web into her web. A relation, an ocean of saliva and sweat, a new being.
A new being. It's always flesh. It's always centered in the chest.
Arched in despair then upright in recognition of purpose. A journey to relieve myself of past faces and to fix myself in the flowing body in which she and I consume and create. Configurations towards the world- many dead, some current, though all decidedly temporary, decided shells, determined to be ghosts.
The challenge of love.
The spectrum, ignited.
The body, aglow.
I confess. I have tampered with myself. I have given my brain a new haircut every week 150 weeks in a row. I scalped the neurons, savoring my pain, and I've whipped the working bees into exhausted incompetence.
Flaccid toward society, frustrated like a mute.
Attempts at baptism and revival of an earlier consciousness prove futile and make sick. Violent!
How easily I can be fooled!
And Buddy Holly says, "it's so easy to fall in love." It's so easy to want to eat, rather. It's so easy to hunger. To rise in anticipation of. To grow hard for. But I tell you, not to love, not to love.
I am in love with her. From every angle and from within her ghosts. Knowing a thing has been touched by her, I will therefore cherish the physical.
She is whole, a four-part brilliant whole. She appears so to me- colored in red, orange, green and blue.
In the northwest she is RED. Here she is heathen and lover. All heart and heat.
In the southwest she is ORANGE. Here is artist and romantic.
In the northeast she is Blue. Here she is skeptic and cynic, and her mouth spouts and gives us chemistry and walls.
In the southeast she is green. A basic sensualist she is here, and a pragmatist. Her body runs well, she grazes and sleeps. Sucks on flowers.
She is fourfold to me, and more than the hollow map, the limited picture.
It is a rough sketch of the girl I see and love.
For she is many-faceted. She is complex, boundless. I never grow tired of her. It is very simple and very true; I want her, I need her, I love her.
Though I cannot be certain, I like to think that while I conduct my body electric HERE, she is THERE moving someway in synchronicity and beautiful correspondence.
Our thoughts and actions continue to interact deeply when we are physically separate. Our feelings and ideas touch and caress. Expand. Become united. Become better in their companionship.
Perhaps I am watching her walk or sleep- I catch a glimpse of the smell, and consequently, the mood of an intense and eerie thunderstorm in midsummer- the kind I witnessed with child's eyes.
It can no longer be babbling nonsense or boundless despair, though these world-views and dispositions both still play their part. What I do now- what WE do- seems to be a subtle dance. And I am learning! Learning the proper orientation (which I myself must create) and learning each and every bouncing, shaking, flowing step.
I do need her for this newness, and I do intend to keep her.
The sense of touch, the basic impression, running fortresses and mappings down my ribs and spine. To fall inside an illusory hall, inside of sleep, here, mesmerized, promised, tickled, tantalized.
I want to eat her. I want to press into her. I want to entangle my thoughts, to web into her web. A relation, an ocean of saliva and sweat, a new being.
A new being. It's always flesh. It's always centered in the chest.
Arched in despair then upright in recognition of purpose. A journey to relieve myself of past faces and to fix myself in the flowing body in which she and I consume and create. Configurations towards the world- many dead, some current, though all decidedly temporary, decided shells, determined to be ghosts.
The challenge of love.
The spectrum, ignited.
The body, aglow.
I confess. I have tampered with myself. I have given my brain a new haircut every week 150 weeks in a row. I scalped the neurons, savoring my pain, and I've whipped the working bees into exhausted incompetence.
Flaccid toward society, frustrated like a mute.
Attempts at baptism and revival of an earlier consciousness prove futile and make sick. Violent!
How easily I can be fooled!
And Buddy Holly says, "it's so easy to fall in love." It's so easy to want to eat, rather. It's so easy to hunger. To rise in anticipation of. To grow hard for. But I tell you, not to love, not to love.
I am in love with her. From every angle and from within her ghosts. Knowing a thing has been touched by her, I will therefore cherish the physical.
She is whole, a four-part brilliant whole. She appears so to me- colored in red, orange, green and blue.
In the northwest she is RED. Here she is heathen and lover. All heart and heat.
In the southwest she is ORANGE. Here is artist and romantic.
In the northeast she is Blue. Here she is skeptic and cynic, and her mouth spouts and gives us chemistry and walls.
In the southeast she is green. A basic sensualist she is here, and a pragmatist. Her body runs well, she grazes and sleeps. Sucks on flowers.
She is fourfold to me, and more than the hollow map, the limited picture.
It is a rough sketch of the girl I see and love.
For she is many-faceted. She is complex, boundless. I never grow tired of her. It is very simple and very true; I want her, I need her, I love her.
Though I cannot be certain, I like to think that while I conduct my body electric HERE, she is THERE moving someway in synchronicity and beautiful correspondence.
Our thoughts and actions continue to interact deeply when we are physically separate. Our feelings and ideas touch and caress. Expand. Become united. Become better in their companionship.
Perhaps I am watching her walk or sleep- I catch a glimpse of the smell, and consequently, the mood of an intense and eerie thunderstorm in midsummer- the kind I witnessed with child's eyes.
It can no longer be babbling nonsense or boundless despair, though these world-views and dispositions both still play their part. What I do now- what WE do- seems to be a subtle dance. And I am learning! Learning the proper orientation (which I myself must create) and learning each and every bouncing, shaking, flowing step.
I do need her for this newness, and I do intend to keep her.
