Thinking outside the box

September 22, 2019

It Escaped in 47

September 22, 2019

The Doughnut

September 22, 2019

At the doughnut shop
There are many choices
Most of the people choose
Doughnuts with the hole
Then eat around it and
When the hole disappears
No one knows where it goes
Nor do they really care

Darlene De Beaulieu

[Ahh! The beauty of a ring doughnut is that the hole is totally calorie FREE! So eat to your hearts content, boys & girls]

The Body Dreams Itself

September 22, 2019

into an avenue of steam, the streetlights
glow a slick sheen. And down this road,
this August night thick as wet wool, a car
rattles. The body dreams itself heavy,
heavier — into the muscled flank
of a horse straining at a plough and then
it dreams itself a stalk of corn, husked
and kernelled, ready to be pig feed.
The body dreams itself a lime and thus the dreams
are technicolour — scarlet, turquoise, safflower.
(And lost are mirrors, shadows, wavering
reflections in the lake.) The body dreams itself
a postage stamp licked, a dirty sock, the twisted
wires in a phone. It loses its memory
and becomes the flavour of cauliflower, the gap
between a note tweaked from a saxophone
and a woman poised to dance. The body dreams
itself pocked, festooned, dwarfed, and slathered.
It wakes in its own arms,
loose flesh, glass

Sharon Fagan McDermott

I imagine I hear people in picture frames
Whispering secrets across the room,
I watch Redheaded woodpeckers startling
Timid sparrows near the bird feeder,
I see shadows from sycamore trees casting odd
Visions of past winters on rooftops,
I observe pairs of Red Shouldered Hawks soaring
High in the heavens unrestricted by earthly wiles,
I close my eyes and see brief images of a spring day
As winter’s visions fade into eternity.
And my mind is forming new visions of red and
Yellow roses in the herb garden for spring.

James G. Piatt

An unusual problem

September 22, 2019

When you are giving your boyfriend oral in the car and realise that his penis tastes exactly the same as your best friend’s vagina – only you can’t say anything because you don’t want anyone to know that you LOVE to lick out vaginas. After all a vagina is like a good restaurant – the best food is always served there, right?

Some say that the “ache for home lives in all of us.“ As I am falling deeper and deeper into onanism, a lot of spaces around me are gradually becoming home: public toilets, McDonald’s under tables, hotel rooms. The itch is then guiding me to one of these homes. It also keeps building new homes for me. Homes in which I feel safe, I feel welcomed, and in a lot of pleasure. Sounds good, but this is also the worst part of the addiction.

How can someone say no to this?! How can someone who has been refused all these things all her life can destroy them when she finally got them?! HOW?! I can easily say “No!“ to onanism, as I said to sex. But I can never say “No!“ to having a home. I think that’s the issue with most addictions: in order to get “cured“, we need to destroy that “ache for home“. We need to become homeless…

I call my toys after writers, both males and females. Today I fuck myself with Celan, with Akhmatova, or Bukowski…With one of them, or with 2, with 3. Later in the day, or tomorrow I’ll change the names, I’ll have others over. I have a few toys, but I want to get so much more. I want to organize huge literary orgies in which my body and my flesh will be at their disposal. I’m already their slave…Have been so long before I became an onanist. Falling in love with their words and their worlds saved me.

When my onanist lust starts to gradually grow inside me, I feel how every cell in my body slowly transform itself into a clit, into a nipple, another cunt, another raging leaking hole… I touch my neck, my ear, my lips, and I feel burning. My arms, my neck again… I finger my fingers, I kiss my own mouth, I whisper in my own ears. I start shacking, my vision blurs, I can’t hear well anymore, I start to droll from everywhere. No matter where I am, I start to retreat from reality, to run away, to disappear. If I cannot masturbate right where I am, I’m becoming increasingly desperate and looking for home. It’s force of attraction is unbearable. My breathing gets heavier, I’m starting to sweat, to melt, to grunt. As I walk I put the belt of my purse over one of my breasts, and start to rub my nipple with it. That doesn’t help at all, but I cannot fucking stop, it’s pleasure, pleasure, pleasure…My mouth is full of saliva, my cunt is under water, I feel my clothes rubbing against my skin and my ears are ringing. I wish I’d have a horse-sized dildo right there so I can impale myself. Maybe the itch will go away. I put my purse in front of my belly so I can finger my navel. It doesn’t bring relief, but the opposite. Bad idea, though the only idea.

I know a bookstore in the city where they have real toilets, not booths. It’s my home away from home (or one of them). I’m heading there, almost crawling, as all my energy and force gets sucked by desire. It’s hot outside, and I hate it! Between me and that toilet there is a gigantic swamp, and I have to cross it. I have to survive, somehow. I’ve done it before, I have to be able to do it this time too. But with every time it gets more difficult. When the urge hits, it hits hard. At the beginning, when I was just getting into all this. I was able to go on for days and weeks with that lusty feeling inside me, without doing anything. Now, I’m completely enslaved. It controls me, my soul belongs to it.

I want to sit on the ground, right there, rip my clothes off, spread and start fisting myself. I don’t care about anything anymore, I just want to make the itch stop, I want to get delirious with pleasure, I want I want I want I want!!!! I can’t breathe…

Keep walking!, I keep telling myself Your home is not that far anymore… Your home is not that far anymore…

I finally manage to cross the proverbial swamp, the imaginary yet equally equally real rest of the city that separated me from the home I need so desperately to get inside. My cunt leaks so much I look like a peed on junky, I am a junky, an onanist junky about to enter in a coma from prolonged lack of masturbation! I need to fuck myself more that I need to breath, more than I need to…FUCK! I’m fucking dying, but I’m finally here! The bookstore with its toilet rises in front of me…Get in, NOW!

Door opening, door closing – our lives, everybody’s lives in two minimal moves. Then we die. The door closes for the last time. In between, hell with pockets of paradise. I want to die impaled in toys, still spasming with orgasms hours after I’m declared clinically gone-for-good, on the morgue’s table, under the mortician’s knife. He cannot cut me, I’m moving too much, I’m cumming to violently, I squirt everywhere yet I’m dead dead dead where the fuck am I?! Oh yes the bookstore. I’m in so much lust, I need to masturbate so badly I forgot I’m here to masturbate. The toilet is near, I can smell it with my cunt. This is how I feel a home is close, my cunt sense it, my flesh, my whole body, my skin, all my holes start dancing and I cannot say “no“, I cannot say “stop!“, I cannot say “ENOUGH!“. These are things people with brains say, but I have none. The little that’s left swims in alcohol, and is used to type the pin code at the sex store while buying yet another toy. You need some brain for that too, not much, just enough.

I enter the toilet, drooling, grunting, dying. I let the purse fell on the floor, I pull down my skirt and my soaked pants and finally touch the cunt. I almost scream, that first touch is the most insane thing that can happen, my life has no purpose other that, I have nothing to live for anymore, nothing, 0. I rub few times with drool falling in my blouse, I don’t care, I’m crying with pleasure, frustration, lust, hate, all at once. I’m home!! There’s no world left outside that toilet.

Bukowski was right (how could he not?! He was a home-seeker too): “Find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness. Let it kill you and let it devour your remains.”

Some years ago I found what I love. Now, it’s already ruining my life, my body and my mind. It drains me, it clings into me, and it’s gradually annihilating me. Stages of disappearance.

One day, it will kill me…

Ghost with Bones

I am a trap inside a trap,
an inhabited inhabitant,
an embraced embrace,
a question in answer to a question.

Wisława Szymborska
The Sky