Blood Sugar Sex Magik.
Blood.
Cycle One: Igniting
If you look carefully, you can see me as I see myself. Waves crest both in violence and grace, casting out deadlock, mortal enemies of inertia. Cherry blossoms fall sweetly without withering, willing performers in a waltz of transience and time. Pine branch juts its evergreen needles skyward in winter, enduring.
Cycle Two: Carving
The first caress of the gun sends rivers of chi down into the floorboards. Short, short, long, long, a morse code of pain tapping outwards from my spine. I tell the artist what I tell my acupunturist: I can't talk when the needle is on. My brain plays with the sensation, testing hypotheses: penance for the wrongs that I have done, a necessary rite of passage, simply the price to be paid. Tracking the density of my nerve endings, inch by inch as the burning waxes and wanes. An hour later the colors bleed into me, blessedly softer on the welting surface of my backbone. How long before I squeal, weep, cajole, beg for forgiveness, a dishonorable prisoner of war? I drop my head into the crook of my elbow, I can smell him on my wrist, I lose myself in the memory until it's over.
Cycle Three: Cleansing
Unsheathed. The boiling water coaxes crimson from between my legs as it pulls shards from my back, my body and spirit seemingly purging in unison. Yet still, I do not feel empty. Linger behind me, and these pictures will whisper my secrets.
Sugar.
The tip of the tongue welcomes sweet, and then salt, and sour and finally bitter in the farthest corners. Like a lover, a drug, a poison, a poem rewritten as it is drawn in deeper and reveals its true nature to the flesh that can receive it. In time, with our mouths wide open, we learn every nuance. If I tilt my head foward, flavor and fragance tangle like yin and yang. Black coffee holds no mystery with my nostrils pinched shut. The body finds its muse through the soothing balm of their spices intertwined; by this, above all else, will you know.
Sex.
Your eyes are jagged icicles boring twin holes through my breastplate, melting and pooling in the heat in my belly, sprouting hot-pink peonies, dripping slowly down my thigh, molten lava that sputters and sparks as it returns to the earth.
Magik.
You have been met in the darkness by a conjurer of words, wine, and song. A silver-tongued spellbinder has you drowsily in tow, and you will awaken in a country you have never seen. Strength wears many false mantles: the tang of a lime, a hesitant smile borne only by the lips, promises made for their own sake. You true valance awaits you in the warm light of morning; in sleep, the sorceress loosens her lead. Take playful words, honest words, and put them in your pocket for the long journey home.
The waves crash, the cherry trees weep, and the pine endures.
Blood.
Cycle One: Igniting
If you look carefully, you can see me as I see myself. Waves crest both in violence and grace, casting out deadlock, mortal enemies of inertia. Cherry blossoms fall sweetly without withering, willing performers in a waltz of transience and time. Pine branch juts its evergreen needles skyward in winter, enduring.
Cycle Two: Carving
The first caress of the gun sends rivers of chi down into the floorboards. Short, short, long, long, a morse code of pain tapping outwards from my spine. I tell the artist what I tell my acupunturist: I can't talk when the needle is on. My brain plays with the sensation, testing hypotheses: penance for the wrongs that I have done, a necessary rite of passage, simply the price to be paid. Tracking the density of my nerve endings, inch by inch as the burning waxes and wanes. An hour later the colors bleed into me, blessedly softer on the welting surface of my backbone. How long before I squeal, weep, cajole, beg for forgiveness, a dishonorable prisoner of war? I drop my head into the crook of my elbow, I can smell him on my wrist, I lose myself in the memory until it's over.
Cycle Three: Cleansing
Unsheathed. The boiling water coaxes crimson from between my legs as it pulls shards from my back, my body and spirit seemingly purging in unison. Yet still, I do not feel empty. Linger behind me, and these pictures will whisper my secrets.
Sugar.
The tip of the tongue welcomes sweet, and then salt, and sour and finally bitter in the farthest corners. Like a lover, a drug, a poison, a poem rewritten as it is drawn in deeper and reveals its true nature to the flesh that can receive it. In time, with our mouths wide open, we learn every nuance. If I tilt my head foward, flavor and fragance tangle like yin and yang. Black coffee holds no mystery with my nostrils pinched shut. The body finds its muse through the soothing balm of their spices intertwined; by this, above all else, will you know.
Sex.
Your eyes are jagged icicles boring twin holes through my breastplate, melting and pooling in the heat in my belly, sprouting hot-pink peonies, dripping slowly down my thigh, molten lava that sputters and sparks as it returns to the earth.
Magik.
You have been met in the darkness by a conjurer of words, wine, and song. A silver-tongued spellbinder has you drowsily in tow, and you will awaken in a country you have never seen. Strength wears many false mantles: the tang of a lime, a hesitant smile borne only by the lips, promises made for their own sake. You true valance awaits you in the warm light of morning; in sleep, the sorceress loosens her lead. Take playful words, honest words, and put them in your pocket for the long journey home.
The waves crash, the cherry trees weep, and the pine endures.
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