hi there!
long time no see!
can you forgive me?
can you remember me?
You know...me.
Here -- I'll refresh your memory (courtsey the private reserve):
long time no see!
can you forgive me?
can you remember me?
You know...me.
Here -- I'll refresh your memory (courtsey the private reserve):
Doisneau and his hotel-loving ways make me feel like putting that black and white Zapruder special triple-underpass magic bullet in my already black-hole-riddled-and-addled curled-adder riddle brain and if it wasn't a conspiracy, I think I'd go for the guilt-gilded noose. I think that good cry I had the other night was the dealer-reeler-vacuum-sealer for me...I had to cough up that Catholic guilt before I could really release myself of that lien and sign the over that deed of trust.
Speaking of the musical bullets, I've never been one to play the musical beds, and I think I had a siginificant amount of crying to do over that, too. So, now that you are getting more of me than you probably ever possibly wanted, do you still want me? Worthless copper teardrops and all? I don't want to waste your time. I don't want to trick you or decieve you with clever paramnesia - arguably my most marketable skill. If you want me, I want you to want the real me - the me who thinks in Chinese riddles and alliterations and obscure allusions and is constantly slipping and sidling in her own brain with her own black hole. I imagine this sounds like a lot of work. I imagine it is. I will understand if you say thanks but no thanks. I understand the reasons people don't like me. I don't fault them for it, either. That doesn't mean I don't wish it were some other way, but shit, I can't blame them. I mean, these are my selling points: the great human-animal experiment, a house formerly occupied by heathens, a castrating compadre, and a perfect little girl. I can understand my unappeal.
Back in later, back in later, I'll be Echo, you be Satyr.
Oh the molassess that so quickly coats my throat when I see but one word, and in another language, at that. That inestimable elixir of bad-gone-good forged in fire from your simple acknowledgement. Gouge the fuck away, because it only gets sweeter as the noose draws tighter and my lineaments grow lighter and I wait with baited breath as I take the bait: hook-line and sink her! Oh, how I long to see your chest rise and fall and feel that skin on skin and the breathing of the other's breath and the smiling kisses and the noses that know and the eyes that, try as they might, can't help but to look down south and the ears so finely tuned to pick up on every rude smack and every rude slick-slippery sounding sound and insert whatever onomatopoeia tickles your penetration fancy. But you know what gets me the most? What makes me the most crazy and the most desperate? When you forget to breathe altogether and I feel pleasantly stuck in a vacuum of silent sex. Yes, that's what I remember the most. The heavy breath, heavy breath, kissing, licking, various flesh between your two jaws and various teeth making invariable dents in that various flesh and breathe and breathe and kiss and lift the head and close the eyes and, stop..... .... ..... ..... breathe again. It's like the slow bliss of a perfect gliss coming down with you inside me.
Speaking of the musical bullets, I've never been one to play the musical beds, and I think I had a siginificant amount of crying to do over that, too. So, now that you are getting more of me than you probably ever possibly wanted, do you still want me? Worthless copper teardrops and all? I don't want to waste your time. I don't want to trick you or decieve you with clever paramnesia - arguably my most marketable skill. If you want me, I want you to want the real me - the me who thinks in Chinese riddles and alliterations and obscure allusions and is constantly slipping and sidling in her own brain with her own black hole. I imagine this sounds like a lot of work. I imagine it is. I will understand if you say thanks but no thanks. I understand the reasons people don't like me. I don't fault them for it, either. That doesn't mean I don't wish it were some other way, but shit, I can't blame them. I mean, these are my selling points: the great human-animal experiment, a house formerly occupied by heathens, a castrating compadre, and a perfect little girl. I can understand my unappeal.
Back in later, back in later, I'll be Echo, you be Satyr.
Oh the molassess that so quickly coats my throat when I see but one word, and in another language, at that. That inestimable elixir of bad-gone-good forged in fire from your simple acknowledgement. Gouge the fuck away, because it only gets sweeter as the noose draws tighter and my lineaments grow lighter and I wait with baited breath as I take the bait: hook-line and sink her! Oh, how I long to see your chest rise and fall and feel that skin on skin and the breathing of the other's breath and the smiling kisses and the noses that know and the eyes that, try as they might, can't help but to look down south and the ears so finely tuned to pick up on every rude smack and every rude slick-slippery sounding sound and insert whatever onomatopoeia tickles your penetration fancy. But you know what gets me the most? What makes me the most crazy and the most desperate? When you forget to breathe altogether and I feel pleasantly stuck in a vacuum of silent sex. Yes, that's what I remember the most. The heavy breath, heavy breath, kissing, licking, various flesh between your two jaws and various teeth making invariable dents in that various flesh and breathe and breathe and kiss and lift the head and close the eyes and, stop..... .... ..... ..... breathe again. It's like the slow bliss of a perfect gliss coming down with you inside me.
1 comment:
This is not unlike something I wish I could do, but I'm drunk. Or suitably buzzed, and about to eat your sins to allow you to live in a perfect heaven of honey and lesbians.
It is much good to have you back, m'lady.
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