moonstruck

(c) Maty Dio

You excite me even when you don’t
In Marks and Spencer’s underclothes and more so in nude with your marvelous bottom crowning the area below your tiny waist wrapping your hips with the bulk of a loveable sizeable mount to grip
I’d love you filthy in white Victorian bloomers and no less would I love you chaste in an erotic corsetry
And nursing bra
I want to see you smutty in a nursing bra with high waisted knickers and hand embroidered hems
Grandmothers’ drawers, not so brief briefs, step-ins and scanties, nice retro panties
I am in love with your soft small roundness
Underworn overexcited reclining declining requesting receiving
You excite me blinded by a ruffled silk scarf and when you stare into my eyes
Fucked
Loved
Plowed
Respected
Desired
Tired and wired
Fired by expectations
Venus on the run from the gods in an all too favorable planetary alignment
I want you now, I want you later
My bread, my butter, my cake, my grapes and cheese platter
Apply this sentence to your wounds every day for the best dressing
Hungry, I’ll dress my side dish of a salad and have you undressed for my main course
Marinated
Dressing undressing confessing regressing
You are the oyster
And the world
My clam, the mussel’s pearl in sea juices
Scrub you clean before I pop your lid
And if you ever hid, unhide
From me
Defriend my mind
I want you after dinner in mint condition and as my aperitif
Dirty and clean and without lingerie the addict I am I’d forfeit the riches for the poor to spend the remaining lifetime with you
I want to drink you eat you
My last supper
Revive you after
The plain, the boring is all excitable
Clear crystal minded
Sharp
Bohemian
You’re mad – you accuse me with a giggle
But isn’t everyone at loss of mind convinced of their invincible mental clarity?

once upon a paradigm

I bought a little vintage hair clipper
Scissor style
I am so in love with it
I find it perfect for my beard and upper lip clearing
It keeps it at the ideal length

The small town afternoon was sprinkling with a summer rain and the freshly erected market was beginning to collapse back into cars
What a pity
I could stand in the rain and browse through the vintage treasures of the happy looking bearded old chap under his dripping tent for hours
‘You hold it like this and squeeze the handle and clip away, I am here today only, I regret, but you can visit my antiques shop in..’ – he mentioned some small town not too far away, yet far too far, as I am not a car owner any longer and I am sorry about not having brought more cash to buy the antique reception tabletop bell and another zillion of useless crap from his makeshift store
I am a sucker for all things vintage

‘Mamiiii’
I hear from the background while I crop my face
‘One minute’ – I answer without a second thought in that nonsensical fashion that parents do, when one minute never means one minute and I continue cutting
There is no rush
Life is full of days
Snip Snap
The stubble is thickening steadily after the last shave two days ago
The hair is falling onto my own reflection; I hold the mirror on my lap, trying to clip the difficult bits under my chin

Reflection upon reflection upon the tense past and loose future
Hair clippings and photoshopped images

I don’t see myself somewhere when it comes to the future
In fact I don’t see myself anywhere
I don’t see myself full stop
I perceive myself
I’m guided by instincts and emotions
I smell the passing steam of present instances that doesn’t exist any longer as each new second ticks away

I miss the old clocks
The palpable noise of passing time
Let’s return to the times of old where moral values stood high above the social networking and the tangible reality was as good as capable of being handled or touched or felt and virtual meant nothing more that practical, being actually such in almost every respect

Perhaps I am not a person, but an image of some long lost ghost having returned to claim his never experienced momentum
Filling his capacity, furthering growth for as far as it can stretch

I have no perception of myself in terms of some obsolete visual picture
I see myself red, dark and purple

I have a perfectly blank mind and hearing others define their selves and imagine themselves with grandchildren on their knees as grandfathers  with pipes and rocking chairs and fireplaces.. I wonder whether I should wonder why I fail to wonder
Am I missing some very important and indivisible part of imagining future?
Does it make me poorer in mind?
Is my fantasy second class citizen to the mass projections of the retirement age?
Disarmed, do I need the imagery of nonexistent future cluttering my mind for some essential pseudo-requirement?

I thank my invisible past for my unseen future.
And I love a mixed word salad with my meal.

trenchant enchantment

enthral me
and she did
day by day word by word letter by letter
my magnetised thoughts directed towards her
gravitating to enchantment
tasty thaumaturgy of rainy summer nights
to the unknown
and I find myself writing about acacia’s smell
inspired and visited by the muse
amused and touched by emotions
so far so good

I warned her I am an illusion yet she does not believe quoting my palpability
she touched me
deep within the borders I framed out for my emotional safety
I don’t bare my soul any longer
I don’t undress my intimate thoughts
nor do I indulge in cathartic purging of my inner sentiments although I do give her the rest of me
I keep that small part to myself never to lose my mind again
as it almost happened when I let the wrong hands do the safekeeping
and the safe turned into a prison cell
and impunity into a straight jacket

could one live the dream and what does it take to tie it down and not to lose it?
chain it, bind it with invisible tape or hemp cord but without entrapment
volatile thoughts explosive ideas
can one touch the ether and how carnal does it taste?

I watch my heartbeat under the protruding bone of my right ankle
vein
pumping blood
drumming life
does that make me more tangible?
more real?
less illusive?
not dreamlike?
I smell your unwrapped clove scented cigar and think of you laying across my lap
two bare half moons over my knee illuminating the night in my bedroom and I am instantly aroused
a lifebuoy for those lost in their mind
Ahasvers of never ending thoughts and unanswered questions

who suffers more, the one who is always awaiting someone or the one who never expected anyone?
I ponder Pablo’s dilemma and in the Nerudesque mode, I write you a poem
smelling your unwrapped clove scented cigar, thinking of your bare arse
and
of your coarse laugh
of course

love is the loss of reality
exemption of clarity
immunity of sanity
freedom of rules
perseverance of madness

I am finding myself falling again
catapulted into the universe
free-falling in love
I may let you beat me to my senses and awaken the beast

Bisous. Je t’embrasse, Chat Sauvage.