gold riot…

I am gold dust anymore

dancing within the wind

wild and uncaring

catch my eyes shining

where only your storm remains

my lips no longer speak

of temptutous devils

their beautiful words

long murdered inside me

i know now

i know dark and light

smoked holes and divine temples

in far away places

my fingers tracing a riot and eternity

and you founded in every space

every line and curve

no other will do

I know now

I know

I know


here I am

and you

 still existing

*For you darling





redress me…

what are they anyway 
what good have these words brought 
except to bring such sweet torture 
honey drips from my womb
deliverance is silky as each syllable 
should slip across your tongue 
and redress my unworshipped altar 
I ask you; what you have engraved
upon with piercing eyes 
a color once unknown soaking deep 
into my bloodstream 
in this you have shaken me 
should you come awaken my lips
if ever they fall silently
these hours of knitted words
tethered and bound to my soul
will settle in your marrow
and wonder no longer
of missing home

a waterfall of words…and words spread amongst my ground and grow

Pay attention
pay attention screams
my intuition

soil dry
my soul
long have I 
neglected tilling
too busy trying 
to grow from stone
failing on the outskirt 
I have forgotten
the seeds within
growing things will crack open
spring forth life
from within
uprooting earth 
layering the ground 
not without water,
not without light
having never doubt
it’s  grand design 
flower and bloom 
feed & cover the world 
I neglected my soil
my soul I am unforgivable 
forgetting to love you 
left forgotten
you have only been alone
toiling in the dark
this mind has blocked your sun
and the water of tears only
falls to my pillow 
no more are you
in the shadows
darkened by neglect

dead in weeds 
they can’t feed you
but I can
sweet water can ammend 
adjust postion 
into garden
bee to kiss bloom
to feed
circle our our world 
and others

sweet death of a rose…

May death be sweet
like that of a dying rose
past her prime
when molecular structure is chaos
and her heart only knows
to fold and shut in

each petal breaks apart from stem
her last vein severed
though her fragrance lingers
her perfume long lay breathing

shall you watch her 
release her frame
this life inside her aching 
to sustain her worth
and to what moment 
does she finally herald
love, let go…
(don’t…not yet)

May her death be sweet
inhale her one last time
achingly embrace her
beautiful loss in goodbye 
yet do not not leave her 
unattended in her decay 
wondering the reason
of her bloom

felled from my lips…

there will be an end…
I’m uncertain with which means it is to happen

perhaps I’ll be 105
well beyond breathing expectation

I may still carry an ocean in my eyes but maybe they’ll reflect his sky

I won’t ever unknow him and my heart races surging with that truth

yet I may never ever truly know the movement of he…my heart already feels every ounce of that kind of empty

I probably won’t hear very well at that age as my ears are forever plugged into music…even now I write with live and intoxicating sounds flowing through me

I am fluid in uncertainty; the remains of hesitation line my lungs; these effects travel through time…I know I still feel this, what this is in the now; and so feel it then

squeezing every drop of he from me…I’m airless and deaf in the loud disclosure of quietness; even then when I’m 105 I will feel as now; alone…uncared for…exposed and unfurled, scented with don’t waste me

I dont know how to navigate this terrain, its foreign soil slipping through my fingers, and chokehold on my red dusted heart

tell me, should I turn to leave
jump from cliffs
slide into the crevasse
disappear into a dark lake bottom
never speak of you again

I can’t undo you
too late 
I am 105, carried in my last breaths I whisper of now, of you, your every obscured words puzzled, nuzzled in my pores 

I whisper of the ghosts in your writing…chanting your name

come here
show me, love 
let me practice the entirety of you
open to me
the sound of you…

falling until felled from my lips

Don’t search for me…I’m too lost in music

He is where I want to travel
away from here
don’t search for me
you aren’t in the music I seek
and that which I seek
is an unwritten score
I surrender too often
but what a waste of my love
tell the gods 
let me let you go 
I Am Heart Deficiency 
why should I keep going 
painting a fucking masquerade 
at the point of hating
this beautiful heart of mine
forming me into a killer bitch 
when all I crave is a beautiful love 
I am too much for you
I am all LOVE

sensuous art…(part 2)

This is part 2 of the bedtime story I wrote quite a few weeks ago…enjoy! You will find a link to part 1 below

Of course as he is winding the rope
his deft fingers graze my rising nips
and softly feather along my skin.
His mouth leaves a trace of delicate kisses
in the places where the knots are to lay. 
The desire is evident as he the artist
caresses his canvas, but as any artist
perhaps understands, there is this need driving one to create perfection. The feel of the piece, timing, rapt attention essential for art to become living. His art happens to be the weaving of rope. He holds his medium with careful deliberation of placement. Perfectly  aligned to produce pleasure yet prolong satisfaction. He is an artist in anticipation, with a full vision formulating in his mind. He dare not rush, for delay, a slight hesitation creates ache. All part of his ploy to raise awareness to skin, watch my flesh come alive under his command. 

My lover inspects his art. Testing each knot…each finger and knuckle slipping underneath the rope to test its tension. 
Of course this sends sensations along my body and with each slow deliberate tug, the vibrations grow stronger. Its not long before my chest starts heaving, becoming more breathless in waiting for his touch. Quiet moans escape through my lips. My eyes look to his as one rises, deep throated. I see fire light behind his eyes. My moans are to his liking, encouraging him to move more painstakingly slow. His mouth suppresses a wickedness that will come out later, of that I am certain.

He is careful in his inspection and I so eager, so willing to let his hand slide up my thighs, slowly begin to open for him. 
There is one very carefully placed knot that must be tried. I am splayed on the bed, aching, waiting for his fingers to tug, to inspect but it does not come and my ache only increases. I find his eyes wandering again. He is searching me with wildfire burning in his gaze. I, watching him as he admires his art. So delicious is each smoldering glance between us. I feel the thrumming, a throbbing heat as the knotted rope lays snug against my sex. He knows what he has created. A firestorm! And it is building, yet intentionally delayed. There is a beautiful city beyond our private walls to first explore…

to be continued…

you can find the first post here;
Sensuous art…(part 1)

colors under my skin…

I never stop becoming M
rather I evolve 
into something beyond
the me I am now
continuing flow of rushing colors
rare culmination of many 
I do not wish to claim a singularity
rather a collage of all; of many
…of those that have touched me
for if you have found your way to me
know I have gathered your essence
pushed your colors under my skin
to blend
melt into me
to become essential to my entirety
and when you leave
(for you all find a reason to leave me)
know I love you
I carry you still…

pretending…numbing fear

when all I am fights to resist this
this urge to give into my whim
I don’t want to stop my dive into you 
wading to turn this numb into churn
yet as these waves rise
I capture them in my mouth
shove them backdown down my throat
fear you may not want to taste my salt
that my grit may rub you roughly
so wrongly I cloak my intensity
hating every minute
I don’t waterfall over you
cringe at my pretending
and why I keep you far
Safe (harming us) at a distance 
but I hate not saturating you 
washing you in me
and intently empty myself of my flavor
so I don’t have to  fear
that you won’t come to savor
yet, all I want of you is to come 
I fear having everything 
and nothing of you 
either way
these parts of my whole
tremble and mourn 
sinking into a deeper numbing ache
waiting for more better of you
fear having nothing more of you
fear you coming more into me
fear you leaving
of never having you…

of only remaining in numbness

or… is it 

…I feel too much of everything 

art of drowning in fear & fragile fractures…

is there 
this precipice
in your heart
dark devastating drop
where ink runs over
lends voice to 
the nothingness
an echo of 
something unbelievable
never to know the unknown
yet this vast depth of within
wildly stunning
as if drowning
the art of drowning in
unmentionable things
self censoring
holding back
is it fear of loss
silencing my words…

I am
in fear and 
fragile fractures