How to Make a Sugar Peony Rose Part

I've seen you bloom, live before my eyes.   Again and again.

botanical no. 5510 ~ Kari Herer

And still, Your loveliness scares me.   To see Your quiet cock thrills me motionless.  

I am stock still, enchanted with , engrossed in the impossible colours of You.

I know I know I know in my head what I expect to see each time you pull down your trousers for me, now quickly and we laugh,
             or slowly and I, on sharp tenter-hooks forget to breathe.

But You ~ Your cock.  Your burning member.  Not even the electronic images I keep close can serve it justly.  

Nor can the moving pictures I stole from You.  

The only thing more beautiful than your cock is the soundtrack that comes with it.  The sound of You when your bellows and foundry breath matches the unspeakable hues of your lust.

There is no substitution for this demon's cock, live and readying for me.

I tried to find the colours of you to show you the way that I see them.   

I hunted for all the hues and translucencies of you.

But ... nothing quite matches you.  Nothing inanimate.  There are no fabrics soft enough to tell the silky stories of the strength of your nude un-guardedness.  And in any case, I'd rather have your surprising velvety skin in my mouth and your falling petals upon me, than silks and velvets done up to please me. 

The closest I could find were hot house blooms.  

The kind of flowers with textures you do not believe, 

even when your face is hot-housed close to them. 

It's ridiculous to think that only women have a hot house sensuality.  

While I was searching for just the right images I found myself lost and aroused in search of a bloom of your likeness.   

Not a single image brought to mind women and their florid abandonment.  

No - each flower image after image was like chasing the perfect pornographic vision of the sight and sound of You.

I never did find the perfect bloom, but it matters not.    

You are that perfect bloom.  In scent, in size, in scarlet.    

Web page upon page of flowers made me want to eat You petal by perfect petal but I could not breathe.   I wanted to look away but I could not move my head.    I became caught in dreaming of swallowing your petals, picking up that trail of hot crumbs and ginger-rose-water scent You lay down for me, when You lay down for me.

What you've shown me over the past few months have become as images ingrained I cannot forget.   Seeds you've buried deeply.  You're the gardener who knows how to make this Sugar Peony Rose part when 
                                       sultry images that sweep over my daylight reveries, chase me to bed, 
                                              and imbue my sleepy end of day moments
                                                     with the silent pulse of Thrill.   

This is not the first time we've talked of your incredulous member, and I know it won't be the last time to talk about ...

                    Your pulse.  My thrill.   Ever blooming nightshade, for me.

                                 Where the most matching shades I find in this heaven on earth 
                                                         
                                                     are mirrored in ....

Blood Red Peony ~ Deborah J Humphries

 .... the slow traces of flowers by night or by sun.  

Everything about them brings you sharp into focus.  

Relaxed, they Exude themselves forthright, for the sheer pleasure of others.   

The way that You Exude for me  ....

The Souls of Your Feet

Looking at a your feet, I noticed something about them. 

Peering beyond the flannel hedgehogs I noticed that you have ‘Classical Feet’.

A foot from somewhere in the British Museum

What do I mean by this? Well, your feet subscribe to an idyll, which I learned about in Peter Ackroyd’s Blake. He (William Blake) had discussed at length the dimensions and proportions of the toes when drawing feet. If you imagine a foot, the big toe is often the longest. This is the case for most people, including me. But in classical or Greek art, the second toe is longer than the big one, so it creates a more beautiful shape. Look at any classical statue and you will see this. Next time you are at the Statue of Liberty say, have a peek under her sandals.

Before Blake, Swedenborg connected the toe of the left foot with the genitals.

He followed Kabbalistic teaching in which the foot functions as a euphemism for the phallus, while the toes represent the Ten Demonic Powers.

Now I’m not for one minute suggesting you have a cock down your panties but you do have a Classical foot. In fact, you have two.

You have always been a Classical beauty to me, but this only confirms it.

Room For A Key

You talk about a room. A place where only we have a key. Funny, but I absent mindedly took a picture of one such room when I came down from Blowy Hill on Sunday. 

I'd seen this place before but never noticed it.

Room 1974

Who's to say that my butterfly key wouldn't fit the lock in the door? 

Stranger things have happened recently. 

Turn the key and the door breathes open. Up the steep spiral woody stairs to the top, mind your head on the low beams. The windows are a little dusty. The rug a little worn. 

A white metal framed bed with clean cotton sheets and tartan blankets awaits. 

No radio, no TV, no outside world. A glass of blush to make you blush?

We turn the key once more in the lock and the outside world washes away. 

The wind and the rain hammer on the door all day and night. All we feel is the warmth of each other's breathing under tartan blankets. Ancient Scottish clans entwined. 

Inside this room time is of no consequence. We come and go as we please. 

It's our time. 

*      *      *      *      *

"Now, will you excuse me my darling. I must just pop out and post a letter"

"Oh that was quick. You've only been gone SIXTEEN seconds"

xxx

Picture This

Tonight I was putting some new things on my mp3 player.   Deciding to take some of my favourite photographs of you, create a new folder, and then put that folder on my player.

The title of the folder simply says “Darling.”  But I guess I could have tagged you “boy”  “harlot”  “king crimson hood”   For when I picture you, it’s these many images and more I've seen.

I determined to carry you around inside my electric sighs.   
I could walk, with the tiniest emblems; pixilated pathways to you would line my pockets.
        These small depictions vouchsafe my obsession with you, to no one but me.  
        Those semblances of your most raw pigments, I left behind in private folders.   
I would reveal your likenesses to no one.  

I could see hundreds of people around me on my way to work.  The train is never short on them, but, I’ve elected to see, in their stead, a few well chosen photos of you.  You’ll accompany me on my journeys.

    If in the palm of my hand, you go as I go and You are mine.  
    My fingers curled lightly round your resemblance, you’re my secret, so silent.  
    Lover is as Lover does, a he-cat ginger-pawing that walks me past midnights again and again. 

Picture this.  The soft slow smile I’m going to make when your photos randomly swirl through my shuffle.   
I’ve got your cobalt blue in my sights.  And I hear tell that to look into them is to climb down into the body that owns them.  
And I do.  Again and again, walking you past midnights.   Tell me, how do You see in the dark?  
Do you follow the scents of musk and lime and of lavender in Time?  I guess and say your eyes follow well.   

      No, you’re right, not much gets past my dark eyes.   These hooded eyes have the kind of night vision that behold in broad daylight that which others think so cleverly to cover under daytime Frowns, beneath Chanel and the smell of clean Oxfords   

By Day or by Night, I see what others do not think they say so loudly.   Moonlight illuminates, but the dark of the moon feels its way around.   Knows more intimately her surroundings. 

Picturing this:
I am positive your visage belongs entirely to the consciousness rented out by the hour, by the landlord Day Light.   
  (Day time is a place I can rent but have never owned).

       I see you move in the light, in your world, a modest emperor afloat.  
       Neither puffed up in sails, nor backwards for going forwards when it comes to talking close with those daytime faces.   
       I picture you Vivid, Visible.   Yet you’re never afraid of the scrutiny of afternoon hours the way that I am.

I like more the long shadows of late afternoons slipping into sunsets.   
Shades love in shadows and I am no less.

I picture this, the open warmth of your Daytime Face.   Bearing the nodding Calm of Sunflower and You - discerning, diplomatic in discourse, whether talking to those on trains on their ways to steel and glint offices, or in the green quiet sunlit garden voice you give to the small.  Your good humour’s a balm and a glow.   

I understand that when you look in my eyes you believe to see wells that go down forever.  Too deep for reflecting whatever lies - wherever lies at bottom.   And though you’re not wrong, you’d be wrong to assume this pit has a bottom.

       Picture this.  I’m Blinking in your sunlight.  Walking and stumbling.  Nocturnal instincts do me so little good here.   
       I am made snow-blind by the white hot of midday ~ where you are merely a stretching cat, yawning in good fortune.   
       Pattering mice to your mawed, I am horrified, but I’m awed.  

See your unsteady mermaid on daylight’s shore.  It’s your hand that grasps mine, until I become accustomed to your forms of photosynthesis.  So much that I begin to think I can breathe your solar air.
Picture that.   

Now picture this ….  I’ll walk a little ways in your garden glare, if you’ll walk a little my night gleaming.  
Failing that, we can meet twice a day in between.   Sunset and sunrise we’ll wink as we pass one another.
And if I can’t walk yet in Your full heat of Day, still, I can picture you, in the frame of my hand.  

I open the electric bud when I like, 

~ for I’ve etched your talisman aspect there and can carry you anywhere I go ~ 

whether over Daytime rise or under night-times sighs.

Blondie/Picture This/Parallel Lines/1978:

All I want is a room with a view

A sight worth seeing, a vision of you

All I want is a room with view, oh-oh

I will give you my finest hour

The one I spent watching you shower

I will give you my finest hour, oh yeah

All I want is a photo in my wallet

A small remembrance of something more solid

All I want is a picture of you

Picture this, a day in December

Picture this, freezing cold weather

You got clouds on your lids and you'd be on the skids

If it weren't for your job at the garage

If you could only oh-oh

Picture this, a sky full of thunder

Picture this, my telephone number

One and one is what I'm telling you, oh yeah

All I want is 20-20 vision

A total portrait with no omissions

All I want is a vision of you, oh-oh

If you can picture this, a day in December

Picture this, freezing cold weather

You got clouds on your lids and you'd be on the skids

If it weren't for your job at the garage

If you could only oh-oh

Picture this, a sky full of thunder

Picture this, my telephone number

One and one is what I'm telling you

Get a pocket computer

Try to do what you used to do yeah

Perspective is Everything

Perspective is everything. 

Well at least that’s what they say.   Intellectually, I understand you’re 4,386 miles to my door if I were to travel east.  If I get on a west-bound plane or boat and then catch a train, I can reach out to touch your face, though now 238,900 miles away.   

But I don’t believe in all those miles.  Time and distance have been known to lie when it comes to you.  This is something you've taught me sharply.  Well.  Repetitively until the perspectives of time cracked and fell away on us.

Only just now I’d sat down to engage you by electronic finger-tipping my way to you via twitter.  And even those nano seconds were mocked, because before I could put finger to atom ink I was suddenly aware of a rush of You about me.  

~ Moving through my arms and hands, my fingers tingled and tasted of you.   Coursing in light shaped like you ~  

Light I could see with the inner eye and feel as an electric coil responds to heat.

And it isn't like you just walked into this room of mine so many miles away, it is more that you surfaced through my skin.   

A welcome spectre.  The Ghost of Christmas Present rides my flesh.  

How strange how strange how strange.  

There are no miles there are no miles there are no miles between us.   

You raced inside me.  Running through my halls and through my feet.

I am sure this form of Wonder is something we’ll wonder over and through again and again.  Unrelenting marvels in these past few months have charged us with the re-shaping of our perspectives.   It is in the extraordinary supernal experiences borne of knowing you, that the perspectives I’d held about Greenwich Mean Time and distance are shattered.   

This space between us is now a room where certainties become myths.   

Here is the difference between travel by stone wheel against whatever science may one day say outruns supersonic flight.

You travel to me through my own flesh and on my own heartbeat.   I don’t know how this is possible and I really don’t want to know even if anyone could tell me how this has been done.

What I am left with is the realisation that Common Perspectives are skewed are linear, have no basis in where you lie.  You lie closer than a friend, 'closer than a brother' because I have found you again and again as I find you today, within me.  

Upon me.  

I saw your face racing down and through me, on a silent golden wind.  Wind that swiftly raised the fine hairs on the back of my arms and made my fingers bloom in heat.   

Anyone in their right mind might be frightened by the things I experience with you.  But I say ~

“Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out. Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat his precious fruits.”

Song of Songs 4:16 

I don’t believe in all those miles.  

We are in ‘rooms’, adjacent.   Time is when we meet in the middle.   

There is between us a shared room, down the hallway into 1974.    

We each have our own key, though this door is never locked.  

And though you've so often come and gone as you willed, ever and again am I surprised

That

You

Can

Here lie arcane secrets.  Love and lust are its keys.

I found this photo of a key the other day.   

At the time I felt compelled to save it ~ 

though I was not working on anything requiring such an image.   

I felt I'd seen it before.  And indeed I have.   

Here you go, I think this one's yours.   

View from a Hill

They say a walk on a windswept hill in December will clear one's head.

But today mine wasn’t so much cleared as opened up. 

It’s okay, no falling branches got me but its amazing what a hilltop view

of the world can do.

She appeared out of nowhere quite unannounced – the silvery moon in the east. 

Only 238,900 miles away. 

Looking East

Looking the other way, due west. Orientation courtesy iPhone Compass

 But then if I look west its only 4,386 miles to your door. 

                                          Suddenly not so far. But then you’re always by my side.

I’ve always loved secrets. I can keep them. But is Love the most precious secret of all? 

If You Wish To Be Loved

Si vis amari, ama  ~  "If you wish to be loved, love" 

                                                                                                               ~ (Seneca)