Monthly Archives: July 2013

Soul Blind

Michelangelo_Creation_finger_detail-300x198

He couldn’t see them. He never had seen them, never was able to see them. He was born without eyes. Not even vestigial bumps in his eye sockets. He’d gone through life like that, garnering the stares of strangers — his ever-helpful brother never failed to inform him of that, in between whines about being stuck leading him around everywhere — hearing their little intakes of breath, feeling the pity rolling off them like tsunamis wrecking the shoreline of his defenses. He knew they were there. He couldn’t see them.

Eventually, he didn’t want to see them. Not ever. Not one, not a thing. No sunsets, no spiderwebs, no waterfalls, no paintings, no slim and beautiful women, no slim and gorgeous men. He wanted none of it, since he could not have it all.
Life irised in, like a shutter set at a very slow speed, closing, closing, closing. Less and less, narrower and narrower. Pinpoint. There.

There. All there was, was that one pinpoint, him. Him. All that existed. All that mattered. Him. The world? It was contained in his computer. Words on a screen, read to him mechanically, emotionless. Interaction? Typed on a keyboard. Goods and services ordered and paid for online, left on his doorstep with a knock.

All there was, was him.

And then he forgot completely about the others. They weren’t real, had never been real, and now they were even less real. Stories he told himself, he finally decided, things he made up before he was old enough, mature enough to see the truth, to handle knowing the truth.

All there had ever been was him.

And with a yawn, Jehovah spoke. “Let there be light.” And there was.

Talisman

And in her garden, the tall stone stands.
Lichen girds its gray loins about,
The leech embrace of love.
Wind-borne, the leavings of forgotten love
Add their sting and bite.
Swirling flirt or whispered warning,
The same to steadfast stone.
The task, and calling, and raison d’être
Demand only this:
Remain, remain, remain.
And so, remaining, the sacrifice is made.

 

Her soul is just the same.
Embraced by destructor love,
Its unseen filaments searching out weakness, flaws,
Making of her the very weapon of her extinction.
Grains of the love gone before
Abrade valorous heart,
Becloud the pure font within.
The task, and calling, and raison d’être
Demand only this:
Remain, remain, remain.
Once more, the sacrifice is made.

 

Blood-infuséd stone stands no taller,
Withstands no longer
Than stone that makes no altar.
What boon is gained by slashing knife
And crimson flood?
The end is the same:
Stone becomes boulder
Becomes rock
Becomes pebble
Becomes sand,
To leap upon the wind
And scour the stone yet standing
In her garden.

What’s Here

I’m a writer.  Surprise!  Most of what I put here will be short fiction or poetry, and some of it will be EXPLICIT, much of that M/M erotica.  If you don’t want to read about men loving men, I’ll ask you politely to simply not visit this blog.