Aged: 21.10.10

And as predicted
in classical mythology
with age,
comes an urgent sense
of vanity.

And as self-improvement is masturbation,
it becomes more obsession
than quest.

Engrossed with perfection,
the attainment
of the goddess's pedestal,
desiring men to mistake beauty
and sensuality

as immortality.

Mirrors, legs, lust...
to dance, and captivate,
and conquer,

indulging in all things
passionate
and private,

to meet the male rival
and be glorified
in the
perfect mating union.

Wild, untamed freedom of natural existence,
complimented by the contrast of harnessing
instinct and modern methods
to achieve ancient other-worldly pleasures.

Clearing the mortal mind in solitude
on mountaintops,
and worshiping personal gods
on the hips of heroes.

Sex and solitude;
two extremes to both
despise and desire
with equal vigor.

Aged: 27.7.10

I could be
happy as a housewife.
Tidying and creating
and maintaining
order in the countryside

and rewarded each night
as somebody's
skinny little sex doll

wrangled and wrought
and fiery hot

pleading innocence
and writhing guilty pleasure.

Aged: 23.5.10

Taking a moment with the pen
'fore I lose it...
and my mind.

Preoccupied with puppies,
and passions,
and pain.

Too aware of what most
deem modern life
the way it begs and pleads
and threatens
to eventually absorb and pacify

nullify relativity
nullify abstract thought

to crush with the concave fist of
debt
which will, over time,
dissolve all determination
to live
healthy, and
alive.

Still it remains
him and I
with our
them
to keep us focused.

And we fight and fuck
like the animals we are.

Tooth and claw, growl and thrash,
biting,
bleeding,
to the
compassionate apology.

Detachment, and dissolution.
Intoxicate and correct
(to never really correct.)

Perhaps I should study
Human Behaviour Modification
of the
urban apes.

Aged: 27.3.10

Now that we have stolen each other's flesh,
we approach
and crawl through
our paths of darkness.

He is here, and I crave him,
and I cannot release
my grasp
nor stall my burning
organic engines.

For too long, foolishly,
trying to make a
mate
out of a
friend
makes much more sense
to demand
friendship
of a mate.

Aged: 5.2.10

My body
has already
made up it's
'mind'
despite all conscious efforts to thwart it.

And he responds so
eagerly
to simple coaxing.

The rest of him aside,
I dwell only on
a sexual future,
dreaming what it would be like.

Swooning over the fighter,
dying to feel his
strength
force
intensity
overpowering my slender build,

it's what he does
after
he takes me
that I fear.

Aged: 4.2.10

I can feel it already

the mating pair
begin to circle each other,

sizing each other up
stripping each other bare
smirking,
and staring.

You are a meathead
yet, you have the
testosterone levels
I desire.

I can sense the primal attraction.

I know,
given the chance,

we would
rip
each other apart.

I can just picture
our brute force
and I tingle.

Please, take me without permission.

Aged: 3.2.10

This list of to-do's
grows longer by the breath

while my patience
and tolerance
grows thinner by the sigh.

Getting settled is a long process
yet, a slowly
comforting one.

And as I prepare my home,
I prepare myself
for impending passion.

And with these passing days of doubt,
and quieted communication,

I am assured
it will not be him,
whom I've
waited for.

Aged: 1.2.10

We have the same dream
an unlikely match
to crumble quickly

or miraculously
fit
perfect.

I'm an exceptional lover,
and a terrible girlfriend.

Vibrant, sensual,

with hot
healthy
breath.

How did we get here,
idling at the corner,
knowing this time
we'll take off without a
stall

A season halfway through
without an evil shudder of contempt for the cold.

So many pleasant distractions,
bountiful fantasies
beginning to scratch these longing itches.
It's been far too long since I have felt
passionate touch, playful aggression, hungry force,

heart pounding,
sharp in take of breath,

grasping for reason,
and carried away into lust

nearing semi-completion,
nearing the plateau
of almost
satisfaction.

Each brings me a step closer to content.

Genuine smiles,
and open arms

comfortable in my skin,
upon this earth.

Divine, filled with the power of the sacred
at my fingertips.

Step by step,
each day a little closer
a little more
complete

organizing a simple life
cleaving chaos
to the
cosmos

and leaving
a double
space
between
the lines
to read
unchartered
passion.

1.1.11

11 weeks, brings us to a sense of touch upon the skin.
Eyes fused shut, yet squinting.
Where once was passionate eyes gleaming melancholy, now hardened into purpose, now softened into strides.
Where once I dreamed of bedding heroes and a Jesse James of my own, I now dream of week long hikes with my kindred. Of the unique face, hauntingly my own. The passion. The melancholy eyes.
Where once was a restlessness, no endeavor or conquest could vanquish,
comes the ultimate freedom
from reasoning.