Cleavage?

Whats the point anyway? Now the ladies have to show a bit more flesh for a day? Sure, its sekzy and stuff, but another capitalist plot like christmas. Maybe I'm just bitter cos I didn't see any cleavage today :P </perv>

Archive THIS!

I thought I'd stick some old stuff I wrote a while back in here...

Who do i turn to? Who can I say loves me? Who can I say I love? who dares take me for what I am? I cant even turn to my own mother for that. why? cos that person who DEMANDS my love. Who will take me in under their wing, show me affection, hold me tight? Whisper in my ear, drive me crazy. Who can I call someone significant?

Who is willing to take that leap of faith, see me for who I am underneath it all? Anyone can I guess, i just have to lower my shields. Once inside, you're safe too. My security is your security. My faith is your love. My trust is your sanctuary.

All the dangers shielded, we can get on with knowing each other to the core, to the very essence that defines us as human beings. CONCIOUSNESS. KNOWING WE'RE CONCIOUS!

Giving is powerful. its the harbour shielding the vessels from the great blue harm. its the promise of rain after a dry summer. you give me something that makes me wish it was more. makes me wish it was more than just a friendship thing, makes me wish it was that way. while i do value what we have, i want more. I want you. I want to love you and you love me back. Is that too much? Im sick of second guessing myself, i want to open myself up to you, share my thoughts, passion. i want you to open up to me too, tell me what scares you so that I may comfort you.

Im locked up, no key to the door. the prison is somewhere in the expanse between friendship and love. the gatewarden is a selfish prick. Im not allowed to see the sun, feel its warmth on my white skin. I cant even look twice at the female inmates. when i shower, its got to be to stay clean, not relax. i'm not allowed to enjoy it, cos its cold outside and the water is colder, they must run it thru a fridge first, just to spite the inmates and laugh at their shrinking dicks. the other inmates dont seem to notice where they are, why they got there, or even bother to think of a way to get out. the prison is located on a great spire, it stretches too high for a man to survive a fall into the warm waters below. we know its warm cos it cant be as cold as it is in here.

then she walks past my cage. the sun shines indoors for her. she looks my way the way she does everyday and waves hello. its torment, how can she be so kind in a place so cold? can't she see im hurting? does she know she's even here? IS SHE HERE? She brings both grief and happiness to my world, like the taste of sweet liquer, it feels great but removes my conciousness, my self-control. my self worth.

Wait, she's waving to the next inmate too! How can she! She's meant to wave to me only! HOW CRUEL! I cant tell her that shes my everything. Thats unfair right? I think its unfair to bottle up something so beautiful. I dont care really how she's feel about it. Knowing someone out there feels that way about me would be a KICKASS feeling! But what if I didnt like them? Ouch. needle pinches as it enters. It delivers its payload and Im subdued again. fuck these drugs. You cant go to rehab for this.

I just want to jump from the prison windows. I would live for the rush, knowing ive escaped. I would die in the hands of the warmth. I would die happy. I want her to jump with me.

I take you in my hands, you fit snug, more snug than my own hand. it feels good. nothing can replace that feeling, that your sense of touch is provoked, aroused by someone else. no longer is it you sending a echoing relay of impulse, but an external source reaching out for reciprocation. I stroke, ploughing your fertile earth with sharp steel. the earth is turned over, rejuvenated. then you touch me back, it sparks my internal engine into life. goddamn, this sounds too pornoish.

So, here we all are, mulling on, again. I look at my hands, my tendons and veins show from below. when they look so scaly, so boney, does that mean they are not capable of love. i had such a vivid dream, there we were, out in the open, free countryside, just her and I. i liked her. it was the kissing, nothing more, except that closeness. it wasnt about sex, it wasnt about the prelude to sex, it was just that moment. my lips mingled with hers. i feel her breathe inside me and i in her. we are at our most honest. im totally focused on her, giving her my all. then he comes along, and wants to chase us out of the potato plantation. its not even his frikkin plantation. he was watching us as well. what a freak!. but i think back about the closeness, and its all worth it. i ignore him.

ahh, to retire, young. i dream of leather sandals, bicycle, italian villa, fresh bread. open breezy shirt, shorts, sunglasses and a good book. similar aged soulmate, tall, independent, free-thinking, and just slightly busty :P the smell of fresh ground coffee in a filter, lazy sun stretching its beam thru the open shutters. no other sound but the water carelessly scraping the rocks down below. the wind, moving softly thru the trees, leaves falling, green leaves. she comes to me, on the porch overlooking the bay. shes dressed in a collared short sleeve shirt, top 2 buttons open and untucked. short shorts showing off her long and elegant legs. she smells of vanilla, its almost addictive. her hair waving in the soft breeze, fresh, natural. her eyes drive me wild, especially when she looks at me that way. the sun descends towards the horizon, we sit there, talking. she has produced another loving cup of coffee, one that i'll never be able to recreate. theres no pressure, no external stress. just us. she wants nothing except my love, which i offer freely. i want nothing, but to know she knows i love her. the kind where u dont need gifts. the kind that means she'll never love another but me, even in death. her back, just above her shorts is warm and receptive to my hand. with that touch she knows many things. i reach up, tickling her spine, slipping my arm underneath her shirt. we just lie there, soaking up the retreating sun, faces into the breeze. her cheek is against mine, then she slips her head down like im her father, and she loves her dad. shes listening to my easy heart-beat. i rest my chin on top of her head and embrace her. she feels safe in my arms. then my leg starts getting sore and i grin and bear it, cos nothing can stop this moment. this is perfect.

Gradually the catamaran moves with the receding tide, we're blissfully unaware of the boats gradual motion out towards deep water. But thats OK, cos we're moving with it. Im belly down in water, with my head below the surface. There is a clicking sound coming from beneath the numerous finger corals. Its almost eerie, there should be no sound down here save our kicking in the water. The water is just cool enough to feel it, the sun heats my back. This is perfect. You're here, in this liquid kingdom with me. After a few hours semi-submerged, I get back onboard and help you up. In the frige there is fresh fruit juice and the sandwiches we prepared earlier. Nourishing baguettes, cut into small portions exposing the fillings of roast beef, gouda cheese, tomato and of course fresh ground pepper. We sit there on the deck, the sun gently greeting the ocean at the end of our scope. The sun and horizon become one, there is love all around.

I'm so cross with myself over you. You complete me then break me. Why? I realise just how much you take advantage of me, and it hurts. I don't want to be in this situation, I'm afraid of the grey. Why can't it just be black and white hmm? Instead you leave me trapped here in no-mans-land, halfway between the gutter and stars. I'm just a mealpacket in the wind, swept up in this maelstrom you call your life. I'm dodging the hungry birds, and reaching for the trees to bring me back to ground.

Pop the cap, flick the drip
Pat the arm, insert the tip
Push the plunge, breathe in deep.
Release the pressure, fall fast asleep.

That is what you are for me
You're my drug, You're my symptoms.
You're evil yet required cos you're good.

You're bad for me, but you make me feel good.
When I don't see you, I feel alone.
When I'm with you, I feel alone.
When I'm not feeling alone, its cos I'm not thinking of you.
You break me, then make me.

You're like Morphine. You kill my pain, but I want to be in pain, so you can cure it, just for this hit, just for any hit. You feel so good, coursing through my veins, making me ignore my pain. But you put me in pain, you ARE my pain. The worst bit is, I don't know where to find you, you come to me, and I'm a junkie. I willfully oblige, I'm powerless. Every shot is timed. You're riding the highway to my heart, straight through the jugular. You're a super-car with a rod of flint igniting off the railing all the way on this one-way-route to bliss. You ignore the speed limit, carelessly over-taking molecules, avoiding the barriers with dilligent reflexes. You're accelerating as you near your intended destination, to deliver your payload of pleasure. Wait! I'm so unprepared for it! STOP! STOP BEFORE YOU KILL US BOTH! YOU'RE MAD! ARRRGGHHH AHHHHHHH ahhhhhhhhh, wooahhh, no ways. Wow! Do it again! What!? Why not?!? Come on for fucks sake! WHY?!?! What the fuck! GET OUTTA MY FACE! I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN! WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME!

The following entries were dedicated to Magependragon...

Self-stream, a flow of thought and action, finds itself transferred to another medium. The medium doesn't matter, but the translation does. Its an artform, not the paint that paints it, but how it is painted... Its the stroke of the brush, the thick laying of media. The paint ripples behind the brush, leaving an undulated texture of chaos, that chaos that binds us. The finishing of the stroke thru the action. That paint, how simple it is, how it can be interpretated in so many ways, how it talks to people who are willing to listen. Its showing off for me, it dances before my eyes, seductively. Dances, dances in a way that defies my own inhibitions. It is a drug for thine eyes, carelessly I absorb it, and it absorbs me. We become one. I don't need a specific sense to know it is there, cos I can FEEL it. It touches me inside. I feel good.

Silohuetted against a setting sun sky is a magnificent oak tree. Its a wise old tree, a careful parent. Underneath its sheltering branches we spent some undying moments. Those sort of moments you'll dream of in your sleep in the next world. Hell, if the next world was to be perfect, it would be underneath that grand old oak tree. The wind whistles slowly through the leaves in the top branches, a soothing sound, giving the tree an impression of youthful animation. An aura of respect surrounds the tree for a hundred meters, here everything is in balance. I remember falling asleep in this idyll, I remember sleeping in its loving hands and you were there beside me. It was the sweat and blood of pleasant dreams. I remember waking with you. Your hair, joyfully playing with the wind, full of life. Your eyes, sparkling with anticipation. Your lips, ripe with flavour. Your face, in my hands. You're into me, and I into you. There is no distraction. How I wish this moment could go on and on and on, a memory is but a sad attempt at reincarnation. I know now that I'm ready to pass on, cos I have felt love to the core.

I'm a spirit, care-free-floating. I can go anywhere I want. I've been to all the ends of the earth, watching these silly mortals go about their little lives, lives that are miniscule next to the scheme of things. Theres one thing about these mortals though, they have the equal capacity for greatness as they do archaic evil. I'm just interested in the good though, I've been cataloguing it as it happens. But I'm worried, its waning. Evil has taken hold of these emotional lemmings. I can't help but think they're asking for it, the next deluge. The previous generation never teaches the next. Sure, they've tried, but the inheritors aren't even trying to listen and learn. Why is that so? Maybe its just a chronological influence, as you get older you come to realise theres more to life than getting to your destination. Who in their right mind would want to die? Is there a right mind? I move on, these humans tire me. There are much better beings to observe in this rich myriad we call life. My particular favourites include a race raised in the cradle of life itself. They've been around almost as long as I, and even they think like timeless lightsources, trapped in overbearing shells. There sense in lack of immortality punishes them, but they respect the cycle. They understand that their mortal life is a time of teaching, a time to understand yourself. I smile knowing that for ignorance there is also great insight.