Liv started from sleep with a grunt as the loud alarm clock let out a shrill beep three times showing five am on the screen. She reached across and pressed snooze. Turning over, she stretched within the delicious warmth of her covers, stilling a bit as sleep seeped into her senses again. She sat up in a slow daze, throwing the covers aside. Why did it always feel like moving a boulder, getting up in the morning? She swung her legs out of the bed and stood up, rubbing her eyes and scratching her hair. Dragging her feet, she went to the bathroom, toothpasted her toothbrush and undressed for the shower. Naked, toothbrush in hand and hair covered, she went under the spray of nearly too hot water, and stood there, brushing her teeth. The water felt like a benediction for leaving the warmth of her bed at this sacrilegious hour. Gazing listlessly at the floor, water slid down her body as she scrubbed them. When she was satisfied she rinsed her mouth and then the brush, then threw that back on the sink. Continue reading “Toddlers, Bis and Midgets.”
I’ve always wanted to start a writing and make it feel like how the Hungarian Rhapsody 2 sounds. Dramatic, and kingly, yet seductive as it continues. Reflective as it passes the threshold of your brain. Telling you sweet little stories of gay adventures and the part their mistresses played. And what satisfying, happy endings they had. You can just imagine their flighty journeys through terrible countries and dangerous peoples. How they braved all that for the sake of glory and renown. In your shoes that looks perfectly acceptable and very much a desirable thing to endure. You’d be right. Except that you aren’t in their shoes. You’re in yours. Which are warm and comfortable and trusty. No irksome little stones at the corners picking at your toes. And they fit you well so the top edges round back don’t pinch the skin above your heel. They don’t have holes at the front where your toes peek out and the water seeps in. They don’t have sand in them to remind you of fairer and finer places you left behind. Continue reading “Poodles and Boobs”
Like most places, I think I’ve come to believe, you have to be there to experience it. Like nothing really authentically describes how it was, or how you felt, being there at that time. It’s like touching air or feeling your heart racing in there. I’m coming off sounding like I was just on the moon. No. It’s not the barren majesty of the heavens. It’s incredibly full of life and you see it for miles. You can feel it in the earth beneath your feet, giving way under them because there’s just been a good soaking. You can smell it in the air because one of the cows has just dropped a load, and the wind has ruffled the pine trees. Leaves are falling. You can taste it in the water that gushes unheeded below you from one of the many hills on which you’re standing. The steady, hypnotic flow of it is something one can sit there and listen to as you stare off into the distance. There are little green shrubs and tall trees; mud and grass thatched huts that you can see, dotting the hills. Far away the heads of herds are bent to the dark green ground and the apex of the hills have lone trees against a background of blue and white. The sound of what could be a giant saw comes at you from a distance as you look at the terrains with precise demarcations of jade and brown. You smell wood smoke. Continue reading “Highlands and Slutty Crickets”
I know of a fire,
I know of a life
I know of a stirring, flooded through with light
I know of a weapon forged beyond question of might
I know of a will irrevocable with the stillness of MidNight
I know of things that form the roots in a forest without trees
I know of webs that span the wide wetness of empty seas
I know of desires that are built on expected fears
And the cruel joys that then bring a person to tears
Those wretched happenstances that cannot be seen by seers Continue reading “You Know Who You Are”
The window is open and the wind is cold,
As I lay in my bed feigning sleep, I feel old
The hollowness in my bones speak of stories untold
There will be few memories that my bosom today will hold
I perceive this from the lack of enthusiasm with which I greet the day.
All the actions and reactions that will, with it, fall into decay.
I harbour no remorse for the want of warmth in my stare
And I feel that those who ask it of me shouldn’t really dare.
It is not for me to judge the tides of such stirrings
I fear I am not experienced in these whirrings.
I fall short when it comes simple joys, but to the brim in human ploys.
I am like the moon when she is round and full,
Making you rise up like the waves, gasping at the pull. Continue reading “A Dark Soul, An Old Soul”