ursamare
Kitten baby. All sparkles and gems. Lying on your back like a golden soft dream. Tendrils caress her soft breasts. Her nails reach out to me and scratch. Ecstasy is an itch waiting to be scratched.
Slaves. Bludgeoned with the axe. A fist of iron another of steel. My dreams came in a packet of lucky strikes and the will to hold my daughter with hands untarnished. I work to feed and prosper. The old fella at the top, he smokes off my dreams.
Life.
Yes, you. The one with the big hair who parented me. You & this lousy dipshit clone society we relegate ourselves to, amid crunches of cheerios & forgotten dreams. Once upon a time there was a cave then someone drew a bison on it & a fire crackled, smelling still of earth.
Here she was strapped in like a leopard. Her teeth gnashed and her fingers turned white at the ends from grasping the leather so tightly. Good thing she had crimson-coloured nail polish, Chanel "Fire" on. She knew what she was doing but the anticipation had evolved into a deeper, darker desire at this point.
Spindle legs like threads. You are not the sacred beetle, there is no mythic word for you, you do not roll the sun, you roll a mound of shit. You are, taxonomic creature. Truth is, to me you, are never an insect, but a god unto yourself, replete
Ivory against bone bears the same density. Marrow is a crippling thing when considered the milky, brown essence of everything. Funny how they say we're all made of stardust--simple--when all we are and ever were are running forms on a distant field.
Every little cell bubbled forward, raising an erect globular head to the sky beyond the cavern. "Yes, us please. Let it cool our head-tops, tingle our bottoms and let us be pretentious little taste buds lapping at the veritable honey of pollen hidden in this, this ambrosial nectar". Little did the tastebuds know - they were rather ironically drowning in a mouth-full of rootbeer float.
Every little cell bubbled forward, raising an erect globular head to the sky beyond the cavern. "Yes, us please". Let it cool our head-tops, tingle our bottoms and let us be pretentious little taste buds lapping at the veritable honey of pollen hidden in this, this ambrosial nectar. Little did the tastebuds know - they were rather ironically drowning in a mouth-full of a rootbeer float.
Chard, glass, piece of self left on the "identity pile or puddle". We call this a tribe but it forsakes its young too early. It doesn't let us live enough. And I find myself snatching at meaning behind words via this electro-forum. This passage that could be no less hauntingly dangerous than beautiful young man standing on the edge of a barge.
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writing since 2012 · 31 entries · 29 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means Ursamare showed up.
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the words Ursamare reaches for
yesheadshamehardskydreamssoftcoolfelldelicatebreastsfullfirepuddleyoungplease