Monday 9 December 2013
The Westbury ~ Room 1974
Saturday 16 November 2013
This ...
Monday 4 November 2013
Star Date ~ January 2014 ~
Hands ~
Sunday 27 October 2013
Coney Island - A Sunday Song for my Beau
Sunday 20 October 2013
Moon Arch & Bloom
Saturday 12 October 2013
Stay ~
Thursday 10 October 2013
William Carlos Williams ~
We sit and talk quietly,
with long lapses of silence,
and I am aware of the stream that has no language,
coursing beneath the quiet heaven of your eyes, which has no speech.
~ William Carlos Williams
For X and his Silent Speaking ~
Admiring The Admiral ~
Monday 30 September 2013
Every Hue & Cry
Sent from my iPhone
Begin forwarded message:
Date: September 30, 2013 at 2:27:38 PM MDT
To: Nicimos
Subject: Re : Every Hue & Cry & Play
Begin forwarded message:
Date: September 30, 2013 at 1:43:37 AM MDT
To: Missimos
Subject: Re: Every Hue & Cry
'Respectfully yours, erotically ours, we, the meat of all matter and as such, the substance of all matter unseen except by every hue'
On Sunday, September 29, 2013, Missimos wrote:
Dear Nicimos ~
Thank you so much for the peculiar sex last night. Rather like surf boarding upon your willy, all the way to shore.
Our assignation left me hungry, but with me that's not always such a bad thing. Hunger makes the libido grow sharper. Well. It does me. Makes me linger harder over every morsel of sex you gave me last night, and every one you didn't.
Watching you writhe under me was a thrill. Not unlike riding a horse bareback I'd imagine! Naked. Obvs.
Said to you last night and with not a little wonder that you - don't - bore - me. Yes. Significant. You are the first man that didn't bore me rigid. On ALL LEVELS!
It's why I adored fucking, with you. I had no idea what to expect from you.
At some point I could only hear your breath. You were at times talking to me but I was only really aware of stoking your engines hard. Chasing you up a hill. Breathing and leaning into your sex. Stroking your energies.
Sometimes, I will only want that ~ to climb into your drivers seat and, um, 'take you to town' if you know what I mean! I don't always want to cum right away. Sometimes it is in fact a good thing to ride me hard, but me, not cum. Just makes my edge for you that much sharper.
Do that with me a few times and all heck will break loose and l'll be forced to fix your wagon, but good! And when I do finally culminate with you in your arms and beneath your hips, you'll benefit the ride of a hundred good horses.
You'll see. And one must remember that when you came, I involuntarily came, sat straddled upon your pulsating member. But it was your rush clipping through my cunt that burst like aftershock as sudden claps of cloudburst from within my pussy. I just didn't have the sensation of being in Canada at that moment. No. I could feel your flesh between my thighs as you were catching your breath. I could feel your body ride and fall between my legs when I stood. Oh my god. Fascinating. Never experienced ANYTHING like that before.
I was shocked.
There's so much to see, really, for you and for me ~ because we are any combination of person we so choose when we pool our sexual expressions. Let fly your imagination, and you have more heights and depths and distance to go within and without of you than any man has time to fuck.
Sounds rather grand to me ~ you shall ride with me in my carriage under cover of nights without end and mornings quiet with the sudden sparkle of few between my legs.
You are welcome to come play with me and my dress up trunk. Don't fail to bring your own velvet cloaks and riding crops. I want to play games of imagination with every You, that you will let me play with. I most certainly intend to share the spur of these moments with you.
Last night felt new again with you. But it often does. It always does. The only thing that tends to be familiar is the seance of you. Calling forth new faces and mien of hard brittle lust ~ the kind that dissolves in the cheek.
Calming forth the slow steady rocking of your body between my thighs. This is where I want you.
Between my legs and in between yourn. Swimming and breathing and coming up for air with you, long enough for a picnic basket and your head beside mine, looking up at the clouds on our backs, talking about which archetypal fairy tale we'll devour and turn inside out with our longing in these deep forests and glades.
I don't know why but although I sometimes see the teeth of the wolf about you, you still feel to be more companion for this Little Red Rider Hood, than do you glint of predator tooth. You walk beside, not in front, not backwards in unholy fashion (unless I asked you to, I'll bet!) : )
I want you. Again. And here I came and somehow ignited a body already engulfed in flame ~ your blue fuel making strange unidentified colours play up against the cave walls. You are my furtive secret. You will be the places I go where you go, wherever I go, wherever our feet find us. I am beyond thrilled with the iceberg of your carnality. Why do I know that I will climb your half eye open dragon even in your sleep. I will ride you softly enough to take you without waking you. But don't worry. I won't put you away ridden and wet. I shall warm you with warm, wet towels after my warm wet body has tasted yours from every angle that I want you ~
Today, understand, that I love you to that "breadth and depth and height" and beyond (I don't believe in limits of the body soul or mind ~ imagination, heart and a stiff little Prick will take you wherever we want to be).
Respectfully yours, erotically ours, we, the meat of all matter and as such, the substance of all matter unseen except by every hue
~ Missimos Xxx
Saturday 21 September 2013
Doodle Connections
Tuesday 17 September 2013
I Trawl The Megahertz
I am telling myself the story of my life,
stranger than song or fiction.
We start with the joyful mysteries,
before the appearance of ether,
trying to capture the elusive:
the farm where the crippled horses heal,
the woods where autumn is reversed,
and the longing for bliss in the arms
of some beloved from the past.
I said 'Your daddy loves you'.
I said 'Your daddy loves you very much';
he just doesn't want to live with us anymore'.The plane comes down behind enemy lines
and you don't speak the language.
A girl takes pity on you:
she is Mother Theresa walking among the poor,
and her eyes have attained night vision.
In an orchard, drenched in blue light,
she changes your bandages and soothes you.
All day her voice is balm,
then she lowers you into the sunset.
Hers is the wing span of the quotidian angel,
so her feet are sore from the walk
to the well of human kindness,
but she gives you a name and you grow into it.
Whether a tramp of the low road or a prince,
riding through Wagnerian opera,
you learn some, if not all, of the language.
And these are the footsteps you follow
- the tracks of impossible love.12 days in Paris,
and I am awaiting for life to start.
In the lobby of the Hotel Charlemagne
they are hanging photographs
of Rap artists and minor royalty.
All cigarettes have been air-brushed from these pictures,
making everyone a liar,
and saving no-one from their folly.
As proud as Lucifer, I do nothing to hide
my kerosene dress and flint eyes
- which with one steady look, are able to restore
to these images their carcinogenic threat.
So what if this is largely bravado ?
I have only 12 days in Paris
and I'm awaiting for life to start.
I'm setting out my stall behind a sheet of dark hair,
and you, the hostage of crazed hormones,
will be driven to say:
'I am the next poet laurate
and she is the cherry madonna,
and all of the summer is hers.'At first I don't notice you,
or the colour of your hair,
or your readiness to laugh.
I am tying a shoelace,
or finding the pavement fascinating
when the comet thrills the sky.
Ever the dull alchemist.
I have before me all the necesary elements:
it is their combination that eludes me.
Forgive me ... I am sleepwalking.
I am jangling along to some song of the moment,
suffering it's sweetness,
luxuriating in it's feeble aproximation of starlight.
Meanwhile there is a real world ...
trains are late, doctors are breaking bad news,
but I am living in a lullaby.You might be huddled in a doorway on the make,
or just getting by, but I don't see it.
You are my one shot at glory.
Soon I will read in your expression
warmth, encouragement, assent.
From an acorn of interest
I will cultivate whole forests of affection.
I will analyse your gestures
like centuries of scholars
poring over Jesus'words.
Anything that doesn't fit my narrow interpretation
I will carelessly discard.
For I am careless ... I'm shameless ... and -
('Mayday, Mayday, watch the needle leave the dial')
I am reckless,
I am telling myself the story of my life.Soon, I will make you a co-conspirator:
if I am dizzy I will call it rapture;
if I am low I will attribute it to your absence,
noting your tidal effect upon my moods.
Oblivious to the opinions of neighbours
I will bark at the moon like a dog.
In short, I'm asking to be scalded.
It is the onset of fever.Yesterday they took a census.
Boasting, I said 'I live two doors down from joy.'
Today, bewildered and sarcastic, I phone them and ask
'Isn't it obvious? This slum is empty.'Repeat after me: happiness is only a habit.
I am listening to the face in the mirror
but I don't think I believe what she's telling me.
Her words are modern, but her eyes have been weeping
in gardens and grottoes since the Middle Ages.
This is the aftermath of fever.
I cool the palms of my hands upon the bars
of an imaginary iron gate.
Only by an extreme act of will can I avoid
becoming a character in a country song:
'Lord, you gave me nothing, then took it all away.'
These are the sorrowful mysteries,
and I have to pay attention.
In a chamber of my heart sits an accountant.
He is frowning and waving red paper at me.
I go to the window for air.
I catch the scent of apples,
I hunger for a taste,
but I can't see the orchard for the rain.There are two ways of looking at this.
The first is to accept that you are gone,
and to light a candle at the shrine of amnesia.
(I could even cheat).
In the subterranean world of anaesthetics
sad white canoes are forever sailing downstream
in the early hours of the morning.
'Tell the stars I'm coming,
make them leave a space for me;
whether bones, or dust,
or ashes once among them I'll be free.'
It may make a glamorous song
but it's dark train of thought
with too many carriages.There is, of course,
another way of looking at this:
Your daddy loves you; I said
'Your daddy loves you very much;
he doesn't want to live with us anymore.'
I am telling myself the story of my life.By day and night, fancy electronic dishes
are trained on the heavens.
They are listening for smudged echoes
of the moment of creation.
They are listening for the ghost of a chance.
They may help us make sense of who we are
and where we came from;
and, as a compassionate side effect,
teach us that nothing is ever lost.So ... I rake the sky.
I listen hard.
I trawl the megahertz.
But the net isn't fine enough,
and I miss you
- a swan sailing between two continents,
a ghost inmune to radar.Still, my eyes are fixed upon
the place I last saw you,
your signal urgent but breaking,
before you became cotton in a blizzard,
a plane coming down behind enemy lines.I Trawl the Megahertz ~ Paddy McAloon