leave these four rigid walls
stop the madness
that dwells on the edge
disregard gray clouds
and slicing rain
in search for a film
that screams fuck mainstream
where acting a skill
directing a fine art
to draw upon the elderly
to seduce a lady in her youthful hoodie
who believes she’s forty plus
but who’s only thirty
a new place
down to escalator
to marvel at the boring appeal
overcomes growls of Fasting hours
and with every heave
a pleasure of self-abuse demand of
delayed onset muscle soreness
commands everything about present time
a shoe brushed and nudged my arm
I took it sexual as the innuendo
of the film have gave way
to a yearning of the subconscious
from two parts, kindred spirits
connected by a quick beginner glare
and a sudden betrayal of my back
how in front I sat
like a dream
to be on a set with David Cronenberg
to take on characters
who speak with doctor sophistication
relish in the swell intoxication
of gigantic vocabulary
are one with creative forces
I start thinking
how stimulating one can be
in the Now of existence
even with moments shared alone
easily slip away
when there isn’t time to create
hand to pen and paper
to know of a thing
to be consumed by the things you Hate
is a promise to being It tomorrow.
I enjoy the interest.
The way your eyes dilate dearest, they strike a harmony of continual reps of my muscle growth and the shared appreciation for how I exert. We stand facing at attention like dress shirt perverts in a city full of desirable tourist.
Your hands dance-charm their way to embrace my broad shoulders, gently, along with my forearms and I listen intently on the ooh’s and ahh’s escaping your quivering breath as you tighten and squeeze the density and circumference of my bulk.
I smile freely and bustle flex like the incredible hulk because you value the horseshoes of triceps. Your hands move inward and your glance signals for another contraction. I break a plethora of imaginary pencils in the pectorals at will while I observe the heat breed steadily in your aura.
You nicknamed me strong interaction and muscle booty while you groped my beefy thighs with your titanic palms of spring beauty, and told me you desired to feel the rocks forming as diamonds.
I stiffen the calves and pictured a hymen to your liking and I noticed the solid lump of quarters spread into multiple inches across raising the
tent of your uniform.
Your home is peaceful. The colors on the walls are earthly, copper, brown, beige, and neutral with personal tones.
I want to believe the elephants and dancer figurines, the artifacts, all the photos in all the frames and all the shrines that take its place are a fraction of your personality.
I don’t even know how to talk to you.
It’s odd this life, being on the opposites and contrasts roads from young to mature. Strange that if I want to tell you how to live your time how do I trek about it? You were my adult when I was a child and to be your adult when you’re the child is unanticipated as the moon turning from blue to bleeding orange. It comes marching and blunt like wind. Questions whirl. Responsibility flies overhead and it hangs above like a waving broken handle, barely any verve. And why would I want this power?
There are many things I wish to learn but am I bold enough to ask during a time when we eat dinner, drink wine and speak of life insurance and I having to direct life-altering decisions that will affect everyone else around and me until my demise.
Will there be a burial? Will we cut a day because of the expense or force the hand of cremation? And how many of the relatives will go in the grave this year?
How does the night begin without a day? How am I triggered by a sudden charge of energy hysteria that lashes outwards to emotional outbursts? How do I allow myself to relax and let go of the tension headache that disguises itself from holding back the cries?
So there was a story earlier of someone who worked with someone who knew this person. But it didn’t start there and nor does it end here. There was a mother who bore two sons. One came out normal and the other had (what doctors or society identifies as) mental problems. The kid with the mental issues would have trigger attacks and he would break things inside the house claiming he saw evil spirits. Eventually the mother decided to put him in a mental institution when he was 17. He stood there until he was 21.
The doctors told his mother that he’s been progressing and he’s now stabilized. She spoke to her ordinary son about taking him out the institution. He didn’t welcome the idea and said they should wait a while longer. Her mental son came out and it was only a week and things seemed to be better. Than something triggered him and he saw his mother as an evil spirit and bludgeon her to death with a stick. The other son came home to find his mother dead and his brother watching television as if nothing happen because he went back to his normal.
And than I rambled on to someone tonight and it went like this without edit, without grammar, without thought, just here in its full written evidence:
And stories like that make me wonder, stories that repeat itself, nothing is new under the sun, everything repeating, everything seems like an eternity..
And its all decisions, and all choices and what for?
Is there more?
Even if we make all the right choices, during the time they may have seemed right, but later with consequence you find out they weren’t.
And this bothers me. So much bothers me.
Living bothers me. Thinking bothers me.
It’s what I think about that bothers me, not so much the external. But the internal, like these thoughts.
And that dream I had a week or two ago, about life repeating and it’s all about eternity. And how much I panicked and hated it even when I woke up.
Once again the mind of a brute struck me!
The exasperating feeling of my body becoming lighter. The likelihood of my footsteps landing softer on pavement. The ailing reflection of an aura becoming comforted by much refinement in femininity.
I don’t question the bully who mocks my pacing of an indecisive vista of a prize to be earned. I plunge uncertain in the continuous reel of a rampant stomach bloated like a tub full of fat-bellied quadruplets with my menstrual cycle stringing my hormones in high streaks similar to the musical score of The Shining.
I qualm in a horrid practice of running around every inch of the apartment as if my ass caught fire and all the imaginative ants dropped onto the floor burnt over self-indulgent panic attacks and suddenly I’m at square one bemused due to the fear and speculation of losing weight.
Why am I dieting better?
All day and night I’ve dressed in layers of overbearing shapeless clothing in attempts to hide any inch that might have been vanished from sight. I’m utterly exhausted in this heat and humidity of both my bloody rotation and the gloom of New York City weather copying the cat of Seattle.
I dislike the idea, the thought and the response of being remotely skinny.
Shrinking down into the thought of centimeters torments my fragile ego. I feel like at any moment I’ll drown and disappear resembling the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz except water wouldn’t be the offender in this self-made barrier.
Is physical existence vastly different from my mass taking up space on Earth?
(I’m unfamiliar about Science.)
Stupidly and viciously I jumble the idea of ‘size and weight’ as if they equal to muscle defeat when they don’t. But in this fictitious brain of mine I cannot get over this cemented design as of yet. Sooner or later I must breakthrough one of my mental hurdles.
Like my Partner in Crime has stated, ‘You shouldn’t be resistant to the idea of losing weight as long as it’s the right kind.’ But many concepts are easier declared than done.
This is a fact in my life.
Regardless of the information I do my best to create a benefit of doubt because maybe I believe in that lotto line awfully much: Hey you never know. Still I learn the error within a benefit. My hunches are typically correct especially when I went with this so-called friend of mine out to the village where he put me on the spot with my sexual issues to a complete lesbian stranger and decided to purchase a vibrator along with silicone liquid for me to take home while he bought himself a cock ring.
The episode he pulled in the Pink Pussycat Boutique had me extremely upset because this is a person who thought it was fine like a friendly sport pat-on-the-ass by his own discernment of me to bring up some of my personal problems (that aren’t really problems actually) to the kind stranger who helped him get toys.
It’s unfair and there’s absolutely no reason (unless there are hidden motives) on any account for a person to set you (or anyone) up for a high level of awkwardness and a clear disregard for not only your privacy but established boundaries that are supposed to be known between so-called friends despite your everyday boldness in life. It is not like I met him yesterday. I know him for years.
It doesn’t give anyone the right under any circumstance to involve YOUR issues because it’s fucking YOURS. Why is he not laying his subjects as a matter of anxiety on the table for the comforting kind stranger? Because things are never what they seem at first. This isn’t about him trying to figure out for my benefit. But for his.
I am quite happy with my mind state and how it’s evolving and I’m still discovering my petite issues pertaining to sex and intimacy. But my sex concerns aren’t for anyone, friend or foe, relative or stranger to judge, pick apart or have an open discussion in public because HE, not I, wants an objective view of why I do not masturbate or choose to have promiscuous sex.
This guy doesn’t want an objective view and he’s not looking into understanding because he already has locked into his prejudiced scrutiny. The better approach would have been to ask me privately if I find him sexually appealing. If my not masturbating means he has zero shot at my precious vagina? My views have good purpose and if I don’t want to masturbate, one should automatically assume I have an excellent reason as to WHY I DON’T masturbate in the first place. (It’s not like I never done it.) Self-control and discipline since you asked.
What’s upsetting as shit to me has everything to do with the boundaries he has the audacity to push. Like on one occasion he wanted to know the color of my nipples and pussy. Now, would he ask his male friend what color is his penis or nipples? I highly doubt it. So why treat me different from your male friend if I’m a friend? (I take this friendship shit seriously.) And this is the thing about people, they are going to try and take advantage based on what your personality is like since I’m the kind of person who talks about sex as casual as the common cold conversation in the office. Clearly it becomes a question of: Why not drive the extra mile and see if she’ll tell me the color of her nipples?
It’s about people who see you in a personal light and believe they know you more than most rather than think the opposite which is they don’t know who the fuck you are in spite of their own delusions. They shove and shove and shove their own perceptions of you down your fucking throat until you vomit all those impressions they collectively collected with a bang of FUCK YOU! Than they take about thirty steps the fuck back.
I couldn’t help but wait a few days to calm my furious ass down at the gift he bought me. I made it a note to send him text messages questioning his motives until he confirmed that he’s my friend with the potential to be a lover. And when I asked him if the sexual tension only comes from his part alone? He feels the sexual tension comes from both me and him, cementing the delusion further. I told him loud and clear I only want to be friends and he could take it or leave it.
He said he wants to be my friend and didn’t hit me up for a few days. Than of course we haven’t hung out ever since that night. He has cancelled on me probably as many times as his other lady friend (he thought he was going to have an ongoing casual-sex relationship) did to him. I told him simply as a friend that he has no chance with her.
But you know how things go, life, it’s a thing you have to learn yourself and even though you go through shit, you just have to laugh at it. From my hateful heart I say fuck those benefits of doubts. I’m going to stay with my gut as it doesn’t stray me wrong.
Plus who needs so-called friends like that?