Took a much-needed walk outside with him under the stillness and silence of midnight. The seduction of demons all day, and could not be comforted. In the end, silence and darkness are as much a source as they are a cure when all means to apologize for being complicated, for harbouring maddening and mysterious passions or dispassions have been exhausted, as they are as much a mystery to the one who harbours them as they are to the beloved who suffers their emergence, their emergency, complexly, perhaps deliciously.
April, 2011
-
Black Saturday
April 24, 2011 by A.
Category Experimentations | Tags: | No Comments
-
In medias res
April 15, 2011 by A.
You cannot regard a lover for their present alone. While love teaches you to appreciate moments by treating them in their pinprick singularity – each one, a single strand of hair standing on end to the stimuli of beauty, both an end and a beginning in itself – there is always a past that goes beyond the blanket and currency of skin, deep beyond what you can palm in the dark and cup in the light. And while you will be jealous of it, for not being part of it, for never being able to own that part of him like a language lost to the gaping mouths of jars of oral history, you soon realize that love is as linear as it is scattered. Like light, you face him, and with your ray of love you permeate through his present: exposing vein and vessel, he is made transparent by your gaze which reaches far towards the opaque, impenetrable mirrors of his history as they, tiny broken mirrors, stare back at you with beady darkness, a multiple-eyed creature deflecting your light, making it ricochet in all directions, slicing across space in elusive brilliance like mercury. It scatters throughout his body, which reflects upon your own when you make love to him. And he will see it on you, perhaps while he stares intently at your face and at the furrow in your brow, the parting of your lips left unchecked or the faint flaring of nostril, or while he ponders on how your red nail enamel had always suited you best as war and love, pleasure and pain, all unite at the tips of your fingers, thinking it – this scattered light – to be autonomous, exclusive to your being, which to him exists far more out of grasp than his will ever be to you, and something of which he will likewise never be able to own but can only make everlasting. Everlasting, with the present palm of his hand pressed on your crimson cheek as he imposes himself hardly upon the universe inside of you, then moving ouwtard, making all the single, infinite strands of your hair stand on end, on their own moments, as the two of you stand in the middle of things, always in the middle of things where everything else seems to gravitate towards disarray, towards a scattering, of baseness and brilliance, because to you, he is beauty made carnal and incarnate.
Category Experimentations | Tags: | No Comments