The Quest

November 8, 2015


The day my girl is lost for an hour,
the day I think she is gone forever and then I find her,
I sit with her a while and then I
go to the corner store for orange juice for her
lips, tongue, palate, throat,
stomach, blood, every gold cell of her body.
I joke around with the guy behind the counter, I
walk out into the winter air and
weep. I know he would never hurt her,
would never take her body in his hands to
crack it or crush it, would keep her safe and
bring her home to me. Yet there are
those who would. I pass the huge
cockeyed buildings, massive as prisons,
charged, loaded, cocked with people,
some who would love to take my girl, to un-
do her, fine strand by fine
strand. These are buildings full of rope,
ironing boards, sash, wire,
iron cords wove in black-and-blue spirals like
umbilici, apartments supplied with
razor blades and lye. This is my
quest, to know where it is, the evil in the
human heart. As I walk home I
look in face after face for it, I
see the dark beauty, the rage, the
grown-up children of the city she walks as a
child, a raw target. I cannot
see a soul who would do it. I clutch the
jar of juice like a cold heart,
remembering the time my parents tied me to a chair and
would not feed me and I looked up
into their beautiful faces, my stomach a
bright mace, my wrists like birds the
shrike has hung up by the throat from barbed wire, I
gazed as deep as I could into their eyes
and all I saw was goodness, I could not get past it.
I rush home with the blood of oranges
pressed to my breast, I cannot get it to her fast enough.

Sharon Olds

Sex Magic Request…

November 8, 2015


Her pain is palpable. It has a taste like rusting metal. I say to her, ‘The jetsam of self should be discarded. You know? You need to accept that and let go – ’

Little comfort to be found in such words, I know, empty platitudes really. It’s not what she’s here for. The pain in her nerves and retinas will turn her to madness eventually. I sense that much.

And sitting here in my living room, I sense the building around me open its pores. I see her estranged husband caught between dark and light, between a recently vacated bed and freshly laundered sheets. I see his face descending to the upthrust breast of a much younger, other woman. I feel their joint lust, their slick tongues – taste with him the soft curvature of her inner thigh, her smooth belly, buttocks and nude wrist. The surprise of his cock inflating, inflates mine.

Her giggles rise from the bottom of a wine glass, and beads of perspiration on his upper lip look like tiny pearls of saline.

I close my eyes, terminate these uncomfortable visions. Outside it is raining. It has been raining all day. She says to me, ‘I want him back regardless. I love him. He’s my entire world. He’s my entire bloody life – ’

‘What you want is not easy,’ I say. ‘It takes time and much effort. Great effort, believe me.’

‘I don’t care. Anything. I’ll do anything – ’

‘Sex,’ I tell her, ‘is the most powerful force in life. Sexual energy can be harnessed into a source of spiritual power. Sex magic could return him to you. However, it might be more advisable to use ritual to forget him. That might be more beneficial.’

‘No, no, no, you don’t understand. I need him. Like I need oxygen – ’

‘It’s possible to love too much – ’

‘But you could make him return, couldn’t you?’

I let the wave of her emotion pass over me. I feel it – like the faintest stroke of summer grass on bare skin. Finally I say, ‘Forget all the mumbo-jumbo, the religious obfuscation. Yes, what you ask is possible. But…there is always a price to be paid – ’ I hesitate, shrug. I take a sip of water and continue:

‘You can take part in rituals which will harness your own sexual arousal. I can teach you techniques – techniques that’ll minimizing your adrenaline production while maximizing the oxytocin in your system during sexual intercourse…You’ll experience waves of pleasure bordering on intoxication. It will cause an expansion and an extension of awareness – until you feel a total oneness with your environment. This transcendence of self can be terrifying, believe me – ’

‘Will you do it?’ she asks.

‘Altered states of consciousness can be seriously weird. To achieve what you want will take time…Weeks, perhaps months. Meditation will be necessary. Fasting and purification. You will need to discover your true, inner self. Your “wild” self. Then will come ritual – frequent and prolonged sex with repeated orgasms. The power of your orgasms will become the focus of your desire – the return of your husband to you.’

‘Will you be the one?’ she asks. ‘Making love to me, I mean. Will it be you?’

‘Is there no one else?’

‘Yes, but he’s left me – ’

‘Then it’ll have to be me. I’ll teach and participate in the rituals with you,’ I say, reluctantly, for I wonder how she will adapt to the strict regimen required? I suspect not too well.

My eyes close on a vision of her – firm muscles softening to plasticine, freckled skin slick with perspiration, cunt yielding.

‘Are you sure it’s what you truly want?’ I ask. ‘What happens when he returns to you? Will you always wonder, when he touches you, if that’s the way he touched her? When his fingers brush your hair, will you think of his fingers in her rope of hair? Will he come to you crawling from her hands, sex and tongue?’

‘It’ll be fine – when he comes back. Everything will be okay. I just want that little bitch out of our lives and him beside me. I’ll provide everything he needs. You wait and see – ’

Oh, how simple she makes it sound. Yet if she follows instruction well, she will in time know what it’s like to wake with the constellations, swim through stifling darkness and conjure with starlight. But for now she sits like a nail on the anvil waiting for the hammer blow to free her – Yet freedom can entrap with chains of a totally different type. Does she understand this?

I will ripen her like a rare chanterelle and penetrate to the heart of her soul. Together we will roll on the floor, unpicking one night-owled reality to replace with another, vaster truth. We will both know ecstasy, wild as a raging blizzard, and she will call a name not mine. The terrible hunger gnawing her bones will draw him back to her. And his lips will touch the soft flesh of the past…

Sunday fun & games…

November 8, 2015


Here I am again…

November 8, 2015