[Usually periwinkle blue, today I’m feeling more midnight blue, no glitter. Here’s a pseudocode of a poem which might go somewhere, eventually. Shouts to William Butler Yeats, yo]
Love is Pain.
“ is a meat grinder for broken hearts.
“ “ cayenne pepper in the eye, lemon in a fresh paper cut.
“ keeps me awake, gives me night sweats, drenches my sleep shirt, mats my hair.
“ makes me want to commit Hate crimes – not out of principle, but out of circumstance.
“ = the Devil.
But…
Like Lucifer, Love is the brightest Light. Perhaps that’s Pain itself – Light fighting to burst past Pride, but the walls are too thick.
It’s the Light, pushing pushing, making friction, heating as it churns with vicious velocity, burning within.
Love is a fighter.
“ is fortified by Hope, driven by Resolve.
“ “ a twin, and champions its pair. ‘Soul mates’ is the regular jargon, but that’s a bunch of New Age hooey.
“ “ an element. The Soul is a catalyst.
By themselves, nothing materializes until they meet their match.
Oroku Saki applied deft skills as FIVE YEARS of built up paperwork were destroyed! Three bags full (two shown) and oh my, what a beautiful future awaits…
What an accomplishment! Three miles on the treadmill and a half mile in the pool! I bike eight miles to Five Guys for my double cheeseburger reward.
The mass of moo-ey goodness is sweating liquid fat and spices, cheese, dripping off the sides with a come-hither shine, the grilled ‘shrooms and onions resting like Tiffany diamonds upon a New Money bust. “Here we go!” I proclaim as I mash the delectable lady to my face. Why I’ve anthropomorphized my food into a female is inexplicable, yet feels right. I sigh as I swallow then tilt my head back, eyes all aflutter, hearing the calories I just burned off pile back on with every gregarious lip smack.
Screw a napkin. I wipe her essence – spread over my nose, cheeks, mouth and chin – against my sweaty sleeve. As I drag lips towards my shoulder I catch a whiff of healthy odour. Hoooo weeee!
Right then, out the window, I catch a view of a couple sitting in their parked vehicle in the lot across from my table. She’s narrow-eyed and flitty-handed in the passenger seat, while he wears a glum, defeated face. She points with a pink talon towards my hallowed restaurant; in response he opens his door, exits the truck, and strolls into the Guys.
He fascinates me: spine and shoulders so straight despite his bent smile. His eyes are hidden under a ball cap, offering an air of sweet mystery. Sculpted calves and tanned thighs indicate Mr. Fuckable’s an athlete, maybe even, a model. Yes, there’s a shirtlessness to this guy. Perhaps a footballer or volleyballer…something having to do with big balls.
My soppy girl slips out my hands as I hear him order in practiced English with a Portuguese accent. I’m destined to see him naked, I am sure! I glare back to my competition, the expensive hamburger patty in the passenger seat duck-lipping several selfies, adjusting her pneumatic boobs after every angle. As if the gods so declared it, he sits next to me to wait on his meal. At that moment I wince knowing my cumragged arm faces him. My true love has to meet his queen in such form? Fiddlesticks!Ī
He smears an agitated hand from chin to forehead, tipping back his cap, revealing natural blonde hair and soft brown eyes. He. Is. Beautiful. A distinct plume of sandalwood escapes his cap as he fans it over his face before returning it home. Mmm, I smile to myself, letting the smell of our sex pheromones intertwine.
“Is it good?”
Yes, I exhale as we switch positions, now me on top.
“Is it…delicious…is the word?”
Our hips mash rhythmically, “Yasss!” I moan towards the ceiling.
“Is this the wrong word, ‘delicious’?”
Oh shit. So busy fucking pretend cock I ignore Real Cock talking to me!
His caramel body is facing mine, his shiny eyes are facing mine, his blonde wisps spike my way. The best I can manage is a “hermmuhhmyeahhh.”
The Guys call his order, he waves as he rises, grabs his bag then leaves.
I look down at my whore, all asplay against the table, laughing at me.
“Fiddlesticks!!!”
ĪWe were writing at Parkside Cafe. The booth behind us was full of Midwesterners trying to remember a restaurant’s name by CONSTANTLY repeating it to each other in question form: “Is it Fiddlesticks?” “Fiddlesticks maybe?” “It can’t be Fiddlesticks…is it?” Oh if only I had my mace…
What up homie! Long time no speak. I know, I know, but the Internet works both ways!
Me? Oh, been up to all kinds of things. See that picture? Those glasses are not ironic; I really can’t see! But man, are they clearer than my last pair.
Good timing that my Michael Kors-wrapped Coke bottles came in right before we left to North Carolina. Seen the pics I posted during the trip? All shot with my Galaxy S5 embedded camera. I know, right?? Got more to share, but there’s been a hitch in my giddy-up, hence why you haven’t experienced any of my money one-liners and blatherings as of late.
Now, don’t get upset but…the Scribe is dying. Yup, my faithful Samsung is on its last electronic relays. In order to get ‘work’ done, I have to maximize the 20 minutes he’ll give me before blacking out. Every application started, every web page opened, is like flaking off tiny morsels of the last of the cookies I shouldn’t have been scarfing down in the first place. This moment with you now, I savor like the last chunk of chocolate chip covered in warm dough.
There’s also been a development, mental health wise, to the positive. My intuitiveness has peaked interests in my local spiritual scientist community, so I’m going off-road, treatment-wise, to explore empathic intuition. What does that mean? you ask. Well, I don’t know yet. I’m gonna work on that. Then I’ll come back and tell you all about it, cool?
This Memorial Day weekend, I’m preparing two write-ups: a share on WriteBitch and a picture story of my time in the mountains. No stone tablets yet, but awesome nonetheless.
While Scribe enters hospice and I create his progeny, follow me @VonSimeon on Twitter for my latest mad antics!
Yup. This is still happening. It’ll be a year in July.
