Every Hue & Cry

Sent from my iPhone

Begin forwarded message:

From: Missimos
Date: September 30, 2013 at 2:27:38 PM MDT
To: Nicimos
Subject: Re : Every Hue & Cry & Play

Yes!  How could I forget your double explosion?    You're absolutely beatific when you're writhing : )

I want more of that.   Why do I know I'm going to so deeply enjoy being able to witness your sexual ecstasies in our private moments together, to come?   I there anything more radiant than you when you fly?   

Doubtful.    

It is with great privilege I look forward to all your golden moments of skin and sea-blue motions of you undulating just for me ~ revelling too in the waves your body will make even when I just clandestine-observe your pleasures private beneath your own hands ~

Yes Nicimos, I count it a privilege of great standing just to be near your fast-beating heart melding with your swelling skin.   

I can't wait!

You grow more entrancing and lovely to me every day ~ whether hard and bright in effusion, or soft and red in slow breath.   I love the diversity of your expression.   

I can think of nothing better than to play with you, in the coffee shop, in the theatre, by the river or in a bundle at the bottom of your darkened cloak closet.  

For you see, this is something I have always had missing from my world too ~ one who loves to play.  I've lacked a friend with stirring imagination and a taste for the forbidden.    

I have found that friend in you ~

I'm ready to play the games that come to mind for you, ready to share the deft laughter behind our smutty hands.   

I'm ready to pull out the Hare's ears and my highwayman's guns to point in play as your britches are wrested to your ankles behind the carriage.  

Yeah.  I think we were made to be playmates this time round ~ I'll look to see the twinkle in your eyes signalling time to play.   And believe me, you'll know it when a staid Monday morning takes a sudden turn into a May Day romp ~

Where the hell have you been all my life?

Nevermind ~ you're here now and I'm going to take up the rest of your life to play with you, the games we want and wanted to play ~

Xx

Sent from my iPhone

Begin forwarded message:

From: Nicimos
Date: September 30, 2013 at 1:43:37 AM MDT
To: Missimos
Subject: Re: Every Hue & Cry

Yes my sweet. Saturday night is still with me. Fuck yes, you did have me writhing, that was exactly it. Even now on a Monday morning I am still beaming at you and all you do. I think I said to you what happened when I came? I came twice within one cum. Doesn't always happen but it's like a double flow. There's just something in me that when I know we're touching ourselves together and you're watching me intently, the orgasm is so intense!

It really did feel new with you. Yes. There's an absolute beating of my heart in my throat when I know I'm gonna pull out my warbler for you and reveal its rosy bell top. To feel your hot mouth close in on me. 

Yes I will be the one that will meet you behind the heavy drapes of the dressing up booth. I'll be the one rummaging around and pulling out a hare's ears. Masked fucking? Oh take me there my darling. 

And coffee shop strangers meeting play.... That is so erotic for me. When you said you just brushed my arm that time and asked for a section of my paper? That for me is the play that I've been missing. It's the play I want to see! It's such a big part of a relationship for me. Because it's all about FUN. Yes, fun with my bald beauty. 

This is beauty too: 

'Respectfully yours, erotically ours, we, the meat of all matter and as such, the substance of all matter unseen except by every hue'

You are just GAWJUS to me xxx

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

Doodle Connections

You're never far away from my thoughts, my darling. I was idly doodling away today and these words came to mind. When you first shared this with me via Symphony of Science it really spoke to me. I felt a love for you then, that has just grown and grown. It seems to grow every day. And in light of this weeks events, it's only right to return to this. 

You've always shown me new things; new places, ideas, images and sounds. You've taught me to love again, just by being there. And you've brought me so much happiness along the way. It's all just a bit cosmic and I love you. xxx

I Trawl The Megahertz

For my Nicimos who gives me the farm where the crippled horses heal ~ 

I Trawl The Megahertz is a song by Paddy Mc Aloon, released June 2nd, 2003.   It's a song of the past and a song which now proves itself most prophetic ~

He knows what transpired when he gave it to me ~

It's more a musical piece than a song.   Yvonne Connors is the narrative voice in the piece.  Not quite spoken word, not purely melody ~ if you get the chance, locate a copy, do.  Listen.   Many people have heard their own fingerprints writ large within it.   

Look up Paddy, I think you'll find his life a most surprising one.  

      I have mostly completed a video based on this song ~ but I lacked the courage to finish it, despite the brilliant imagery I culled to accompany it ~ the timing for this just never felt quite 'right' ~

Perhaps some day I will finish it.   I do not yet have the strength or desire to share those images.  

For now, He and I?   We're living this song and it's imagery, together ~ and for that I owe him EVERYTHING ~

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

From Paddy McAloon's solo project

Released in June 2, 2003

EMI Records UK

Rendered Lines & Figments ~

      Nicimos, no one but you can ever know what this image you have drawn means.  But I do for I found it in my soul too ~ 

Thank you for taking the time to render this for Us ~

Blog or no blog, some things will only ever be between just us two, within our Midnight Places ~

 

            

'Lines directed and drawn by the careful hands of love' (two hands, one heart) ~ X

 

   ~ Yes my darling Nicimos, my 'X', they are.

~ I literally couldn't have lived in that interior serene picture without you.

Thank you for being there for me in the most peculiar of ways & waves.  

How in hell can you take for granted one who sidles up to you in waking & sleeping dreams?  

And you, in theirs?

My dearest Mr Nicimos ~

You are the figment of a blessed reality!

My sleeping soul comes to rest at the foot of Our bed ~

Xxx

Pulled Joy ~

      It's this.  It's very much this, only, she's not lying down passively.  She's standing in front of the basin in a coffee shop, in a locked washroom with him.   

Legs apart, strong thighs bared just for him.   No other ~

      After much flirting and sensual gaming they find each other in this room they have created for each other.  

      He is crouched below her on his knees.   His trousers?  Why, they're round his ankles.  

From where she stands, she can witness the subtle rising and falling of his scarlet cock.  He does not have to moan for her to feel his pleasure in these salty acts, she can see it vivid and flushing.  

Her cunt rises to match his soft peaks ~ His erect scent, mingled with fire and fine English cologne ascends, erotic manna for her senses ~

She closes her eyes as his energies race through her trembling thighs.  

All she knows right now is his tongue, his mouth and her little pearl, sucked inside his mouth as her orgasm peaks, warm cream from her pussy is the heated honey he's made as he lovingly pulls her joy from deep within her ~

  ~ Nicimos knows how to please his missimos ~ It's evident ~

Xxx

The Coming of Apollo Red ~

~ Nicimos ~

 Roses, O red Roses,

 Roses afire, aflame,

 O burgeon that discloses

 The glory of desire ___

 Hush! all the heart of fire

 Is mingled in Thy name,

 O roses, roses, roses,

 Red roses of desire.

 The golden-shafted sunlight

 Beats down upon the sward;

 The pillared serpent's one light

 Is a flame of red desire;

 O snake from out the mire,

 I slay thee with the sword,

 The strong sword of the sunlight,

 The sword of my desire!

 The still strong bird of sorrow

 Keens through the golden blue,

 And many a bitter morrow

 Is borne upon his wings;

 The glory that he brings

 He brings, O King, to you,

 The wonder-song of sorrow

 In the flapping of his wings.

 The flaming day grows olden

 As the youth of glory wanes;

 And the sun-bird grows more golden

 And narrower his wings;

 He swirls around in rings;

 He bears the bloody stains

 Of all the sorrows olden

 Upon his bright gold wings.

And scarlet-rimmed and splendid,

 The wide blue vault is spanned

 With golden rays wide-bended

 From the green earth to the skies;

 The hush of noontide dies,

 Song rises from the land ___

 And scarlet, naked, splendid,

 Glow out the radiant skies.

 A cloud of huge hushed laughter

 Shakes all the listening boughs,

 And a sudden hush comes after,

 Dropped from the silent skies;

 A myriad laughing eyes

 Flash in a still carouse,

 And shake with silent laughter

 The blue vault of the skies.

 A breeze ___ a leaf ___ a shadow ___

 The falling of a bud ___

 The wind across the meadow ___

 A flash of light ___ a call ___

 A patter on the wall ___

 The air is bright as blood;

 A moment stands a shadow,

 A moment sounds a call.

 Awake! the spell is broken,

 And hushed the sense of noon;

 What silent word was spoken

 In answer to the Call?

... Hush!

 See the rose-leaves fall;

 Ah! see the pathway strewn

 With tender rose-leaves, broken

 In answer to the Call.

 How still it lies, the garden,

 Now the red flash is gone;

 The brown soil seems to harden

 Now the strange spell is fled;

 And the earth lies cold and dead,

 And the hot hours hurry on.

 It is only a quiet garden

 Now that the spell is fled.

 But the hour, the hour and the token,

 Have passed as a dream away,

 Now that the spell is broken,

 And the moment's flash is fled. 

 When the secret word was said,

 Ah! what remained to say?

 No word, but silence' token

 That the golden God had fled.

 And the roses, roses, roses

 Flame in their red desire,

 And every bud uncloses

 To mark the sign that fled;

 The wonder-word hath sped

 To the far Olympian fire:

 The spell of the crimson roses

 Has passed from earth and fled.

 But still the old silent garden

 Remember the golden flush

 When the heavens seemed to harden

 For a moment that came and fled;

 When the whole green earth grew red

 In a breathless spell and a hush,

 And the world grew young in the garden,

 And trembled, and passed, and fled.

       ~ VICTOR B. NEUBURG

A former member of Aleister Crowley's post Golden Dawn occult order the A.'.A.' ~ Victor Neuberg was also a poet and patron of poets, 
most famously as an early publisher of Dylan Thomas.