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| Welcome Perverts of the Intellectual Persuasion
The key to wooing Mariana Trench? Any man who would write me love letters and take his time in learning about me, by reading between the lines here - this clever man can seduce my mind and can therefore have my body. Now, if he also seeks and finds my soul, I'll be his forever.
Please check out my Directory of Erotic Poetry and Prose - Yummy
 
Kama is the enjoyment of appropriate objects by the five senses of the soul. The ingredient in this is a peculiar contact between the organ of sense and its object, and the consciousness of pleasure which arises from that contact is called Kama. - The Kamasutra
This blog will predominately consist of my erotic poetry and prose, combined with art from around the world. It features discourse on culture, philisophy, humor, quotes etc. and some of my favorite things to stimulate all your senses:
"Kitsune" is Japanese for fox. Foxes are a common subject of Japanese folklore. Many stories depict them as intelligent and sexual spirits that take the form of human females. In Japanese, "kitsu-ne" means come and sleep, and "ki-tsune" means always comes.
ARTWORK TOP LEFT "Red Head" BY: Jacob Collins
I, Mariana_Trench_ allow any Hookup.Date Naughty Affair Dating blogger to mention me and/or use a link to my blog, a blog post, my profile photo/s and/or a link to my profile with my name in it for the purpose of networking, communication, and creating fun and games on the website....or just plain perving! To be used in blogs, email and groups. I realize that getting my name out there is a way to increase my odds of finding like minded people with whom I wish to communicate.  |
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Song Lyrics by George Brassens
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Posted:May 26, 2010 7:02 am
Last Updated:Jun 3, 2010 5:33 pm
16769 Views
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Dans L'eau de la Claire Fontaine
Dans l'eau de la claire fontaine
Elle se baignait toute nue
Une saute de vent soudaine
Jeta ses habits dans les nues
En dtresse, elle me fit signe
Pour la vtir, d'aller chercher
Des monceaux de feuilles de vigne
Fleurs de lis ou fleurs d'oranger
Avec des ptales de roses
Un bout de corsage lui fis
La belle n'tait pas bien grosse
Une seule rose a suffi
Avec le pampre de la vigne
Un bout de cotillon lui fis
Mais la belle tait si petite
Qu'une seule feuille a suffi
Elle me tendit ses bras, ses lvres
Comme pour me remercier
Je les pris avec tant de fivre
Qu'ell' fut toute dshabille
Le jeu dut plaire l'ingnue
Car, la fontaine souvent
Ell' s'alla baigner toute nue
En priant Dieu qu'il fit du vent
Qu'il fit du vent...
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At the clear fountain,
While I was strolling by,
I found the water so nice
That I went in to bathe.
So long I've been loving you,
I will never forget you.
Under an oak tree,
I dried myself.
On the highest branch,
A nightingale was singing.
So long I've been loving you,
I will never forget you.
Sing, nightingale, sing,
Your heart is so happy.
Your heart feels like laughing,
Mine feels like weeping.
So long I've been loving you,
I will never forget you.
I lost my beloved,
Without deserving it,
For a bunch of roses,
That I denied her.
So long I've been loving you,
I will never forget you.
I wanted the rose
To be still on the bush,
And my sweet beloved
To be still loving me.
(other version:
And even the rosebush
To be thrown in the sea.)
So long I've been loving you,
I will never forget you.
Image: "Melody" by Kate Elizabeth Bunce
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A Raconteur of the Great Plains
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Posted:May 23, 2010 8:10 pm
Last Updated:Jul 7, 2016 5:07 pm
18967 Views
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Deep below the well-lit, open spaces
I wait under the under
For you to come and rip me asunder
Tearing my core until morning
I dream
I'm a storm torrent across a slate-shale sea
I rush in billowed reflections
A fast, fast dark sky
Over a humming meadow's wet –
Black-Eyed Susan is square-dancing,
Scent of coal-colored soil
Root-strewn the banks,
Flood-plain vistas expand the horizon
Pragmatic jack rabbits dig borrows
Some have tried to understand me,
Some are dead, but not for trying…
You, you do, you are, and I…
I’m a storm rolling towards you
Beckoning from the middle,
Scared to death by my longing for you
This place a green corn ocean, crows swim
I bolt white high through
Like snowfalls cold fingertips
Kiss February windowpanes.
I scamper, emboldened, lover tar-baking heat
Like highways sprint
July road trips -
I’m pouring out like rain,
You are the way grasshoppers tickle my palm,
You are the way the wind sings hymnals,
Constant and inevitable,
Comforting and natural…
I frollic like wildfire across a match head
I leap across lakes of dream-stuff
The valleys of the blue hills,
Birthing smog smoke-stacks,
Miles, miles, miles, miles I cover
Ox-rut ancient welled-up
Clay and decay
Stones laid by settlers waiting.
Wagons – cookware clanging,
Intrepid ox-carts rutting,
Sioux war paths converging,
Mormon hand-carts rumbling,
Buffalo soldiers driving herds,
All of our
Debris blowing sideways –
Me meanwhile,
Slamming the leaves into the ground,
Fast food and the faster scent of rubber…
I burn like… fast as fast is
Faster than quicksilver can fall into the sun
I, bounding, prance unstoppable to you –
Look at me, I’m lightening…
Fleeing across the skies - seeking
A Raconteur of the Great Plains
Whose wild words will me open
Destroy me and devour me,
Like how clouds burst above the prairie.
Image: "Girl in Wheat Field with Poppies" By Ultralux Studios
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21
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A River of Milk
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Posted:May 22, 2010 7:24 pm
Last Updated:Aug 27, 2010 3:02 pm
17705 Views
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I fell asleep imagining your thrusting wrist and hard fingers violating me, you down upon your knees praying at my cathedral. Your eyes two flashing neon signs: worship me - worship me -worship me. The bells began to ring, halleluiahs and I was beatified by you. I came hard and flooded my pussy, cum flowing down between the clefts of my ass cheeks, puddling beneath me. The bed was now damp with my self-fuck. I felt tenderness in my release, roses opening and the touch of their petals upon my cunt. You were absolved in the completion of my sin. Diagonal bands of sunlight slide from the shuttered windows, shaft piercing the still air. As I drifted off to sleep, I languidly rubbed the wetness off my pussy onto the clean dryness of my cotton sheet.
In my sleep, I dreamt of climbing bleacher stairs to reach you. Up, up I went. I looked upon you, sitting on this bleacher, and fell into your body. Our bodies merged and I became you. As I was falling into your sleep-body, dissolving, I felt your arms reach up towards me, embracing my sleep-ghost self. I was pulled into you. A thousand fireflies flew up out of our mouth. They danced in front of the almost full moon, filling the air with flashing neon signs: worship me - worship me - worship me. And you were beatified by me.
I heard your deep voice say to my sleep-ghost “I want to make your blood swim in your veins like a river of milk.” I drank your cum, and my body felt safe and warm, gentle and loved. Your cock filled my veins like a river of milk.
I felt you pulling me down into your sleep-body. I was swimming in this dream, sitting up on those high steps, overlooking a field. I was swimming in your body, overlooking a field, a wide spread of green. We sat as one body, one corporal self, and watched the sun besiege the horizon. The grass resembled a quilt, this way and that the lawn mower must have traveled. I saw the echo of its labors in the quilt pattern of the grass blades, how the field had stripes of lighter green and darker green. I grew aroused, manifestations of my desire for you - in how I disappeared and felt your body from the inside. Your lungs pushed against my chest. I felt your breathing - your breath drawing in and caressing my nipples, fogging me up. You exhaled, and your spine rubbed hard against my stomach. Fogging me up. I woke up wet once more. I had orgasmed in my sleep, dreaming of your spine rubbing hard against my stomach. My pussy quivered, and I was soul-sick to have parted from the comfort of your body. I worshiped you.
I heard your voice say now “Baby…close your eyes, I’m turning on the light. You know I have no way to come to you tonight. But, let me take care of you, darling. It’s cold outside, bring your sweater.”
And like this, you were gone. Slowly, I rolled out of bed to tackle the evening without you. I felt your eyes watching me from the bed. I guess you were still there. It's confusing, and comforting, this kind of dream. Like my feelings for you, confusing and comforting.
I told you earlier, you turn me inside out. You strip me of my skin, you pull it off like the skin of a fruit. I told you earlier, I feel like a ripe fig in your hand, your teeth pulling my pulp out, your tongue lapping me dry. You are dangerous. You are addicting.
I turned back to you on the bed and said “I think I really have to go, baby.”
The sun was gone, and the rain had stained the street black. My blood was swimming in my veins like a river of milk. The sun was long gone, and it was cold outside. People in the city sit on their decks in this kind of weather, companions in the dark. Sirens are no substitute for your voice. It was cold outside, so I brought a sweater. I imagined you out on your deck, listening to the crickets and watching fireflies dance.
Image: "Butterfly Dreams" by Vassily Stern 2001
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12
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Poem by Federico Garcia Lorca
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Posted:May 20, 2010 9:32 pm
Last Updated:Aug 1, 2010 4:55 pm
17100 Views
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Romance Sonambulo
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea
and the on the mountain.
With the shade around her waist
she dreams on her balcony,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
Green, how I want you green.
Under the gypsy moon,
all things are watching her
and she cannot see them.
Green, how I want you green.
Big hoarfrost stars
come with the fish of shadow
that opens the road of dawn.
The fig tree rubs its wind
with the sandpaper of its branches,
and the forest, cunning cat,
bristles its brittle fibers.
But who will come? And from where?
She is still on her balcony
green flesh, her hair green,
dreaming in the bitter sea.
--My friend, I want to trade
my for her house,
my saddle for her mirror,
my knife for her blanket.
My friend, I come bleeding
from the gates of Cabra.
--If it were possible, my boy,
I'd help you fix that trade.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--My friend, I want to die
decently in my bed.
Of iron, if that's possible,
with blankets of fine chambray.
Don't you see the wound I have
from my chest up to my throat?
--Your white shirt has grown
thirsty dark brown roses.
Your blood oozes and flees
around the corners of your sash.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--Let me climb up, at least,
up to the high balconies;
Let me climb up! Let me,
up to the green balconies.
Railings of the moon
through which the water rumbles.
Now the two friends climb up,
up to the high balconies.
Leaving a trail of blood.
Leaving a trail of teardrops.
Tin bell vines
were trembling on the roofs.
A thousand crystal tambourines
struck at the dawn light.
Green, how I want you green,
green wind, green branches.
The two friends climbed up.
The stiff wind left
in their mouths, a strange taste
of bile, of mint, and of basil
My friend, where is she--tell me--
where is your bitter girl?
How many times she waited for you!
How many times would she wait for you,
cool face, black hair,
on this green balcony!
Over the mouth of the cistern
the gypsy girl was swinging,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
An icicle of moon
holds her up above the water.
The night became intimate
like a little plaza.
Drunken "Guardias Civiles"
were pounding on the door.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea.
And the on the mountain.
----
Verde que te quiero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar
y el caballo en la monta�a.
Con la sombra en la cintura
ella sue�a en su baranda,
verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fr�a plata.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Bajo la luna gitana,
las cosas la est�n mirando
y ella no puede mirarlas.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Grandes estrellas de escarcha
vienen con el pez de sombra
que abre el camino del alba.
La higuera frota su viento
con la lija de sus ramas,
y el monte, gato gardu�o,
eriza sus pitas agrias.
�Pero qui�n vendra? �Y por d�nde...?
Ella sigue en su baranda,
Verde came, pelo verde,
so�ando en la mar amarga.
--Compadre, quiero cambiar
mi caballo por su casa,
mi montura por su espejo,
mi cuchillo per su manta.
Compadre, vengo sangrando,
desde los puertos de Cabra.
--Si yo pudiera, mocito,
este trato se cerraba.
Pero yo ya no soy yo,
ni mi casa es ya mi casa.
--Compadre, quiero morir
decentemente en mi cama.
De acero, si puede ser,
con las s�banas de holanda.
�No ves la herida que tengo
desde el pecho a la garganta?
--Trescientas rosas morenas
lleva tu pechera blanca.
Tu sangre rezuma y huele
alrededor de tu faja.
Pero yo ya no soy yo,
ni mi casa es ya mi casa.
--Dejadme subir al menos
hasta las altas barandas;
�dejadme subir!, dejadme,
hasta las verdes barandas.
Barandales de la luna
por donde retumba el agua.
Ya suben los dos compadres
hacia las altas barandas.
Dejando un rastro de sangre.
Dejando un rastro de l�grimas.
Temblaban en los tejados
farolillos de hojalata.
Mil panderos de cristal
her�an la madrugada.
Verde que te quiero verde,
verde viento, verdes ramas.
Los dos compadres subieron.
El largo viento dejaba
en la boca un raro gusto
de hiel, de menta y de albahaca.
�Compadre! �Donde est�, d�me?
�Donde est� tu ni�a amarga?
�Cu�ntas veces te esper�!
�Cu�ntas veces te esperara,
cara fresca, negro pelo,
en esta verde baranda!
Sobre el rostro del aljibe
se mec�a la gitana.
Verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fr�a plata.
Un car�mbano de luna
la sostiene sobre el agua.
La noche se puso �ntima
como una peque�a plaza.
Guardias civiles borrachos
en la puerta golpeaban.
Verde que te qinero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar.
Y el caballo en la monta�a.
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The Figurehead Speaks: Words from The Widow's Walk
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Posted:May 18, 2010 7:54 pm
Last Updated:Jan 26, 2012 3:01 pm
18165 Views
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(Please read: The Figurehead before reading this poem. They are a call and response.)
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He is the rock that fills the chink.
With curving shutters, closed like prayer
A smell of lilacs, a pathway
Where waxen red hips grew heavy,
Thereby sagging the rose bushes,
Dragging their limbs towards my skirt…
With a copper mermaid who flew,
Her indecisive limbs beckoning…
We built our home by the sea.
My soul goes clad in gorgeous things
You dress me with your chiseled fingers,
Your sun-faded eyes, your complete smile
That look that eats my worries
how like the stars are these
White flashing moments, our
Strobes of celestial devotions
So different from
Coiled rope, hemp braided rigors -
The light to guide, the heavens
In your touch is where I find
The eye of any of life’s storms
You are a lighthouse,
I am a lighthouse...
Piercing foggy banks like knives,
The savior of sin-tainted men.
I might have known it
in the earlier hours of spring
How he was gone,
Laden- holdings inert yet heavy
Straw baskets pregnant with china,
Casks and barrels - cloves, nutmeg, tea -
When sharpened sea-winds sliced
Our solitudes and the unsettling
Gloom of the live-oaks turned vessel
Foreshadowing death
Its very nature, a trespass
The waves crashing, crashing my
Other body’s flesh – bled pale
The way things die at sea, absolute
Memories of your soul
Devouring and claiming me
Our bodies like the crash of the
Surf that chisels the shore
Perpetually walking,
Like a pilgrim, barefoot
tell me not of weather shaped suffering
of a world that changed under your hand
Neptune
The black iron lace walls of this space
Admit the elements still -
The air is like a butterfly
I shift in the cold gloom weather,
Sprawled across our bed
Too wide for one soul
Upon the rock drops
Pried apart,
The shell of a single razor-back clam.
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A widow's walk (or roof walk, also known as a Captain’s walk) is railed rooftop platform often with a small enclosed cupola, found on many coastal 19th century North American houses. These platforms were used to observe vessels at sea, and often offered a great view of the nearby shore. The name comes from the wives of mariners, who would watch for their spouses' return, often in vain as the ocean took the lives of the mariners, leaving the women as widows.
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14
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Your Molly Pitcher
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Posted:May 14, 2010 6:16 pm
Last Updated:Dec 8, 2010 7:18 pm
18795 Views
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We liked to role play. I wanted to taste him so badly I grew light-headed. His voice woke me up at night, the way he said honey, sugar, darling and suck me. He liked the way I read his mind and the way I always wanted to feel him inside me. I could envision him smiling, a look upon his face of serious joy.
I was his Molly Pitcher, and he was doing battle against the Red Coat Army, just about 200 years ago. 200 years ago, yesterday. I gave him a clay mug of cold water. He kissed me and said I tasted like gun powder and an idealized kind of history, like pumpkin pie with fresh whipped cream.
"The pilgrims did not have whipped cream on pumpkin pie."
"True," I said... "What about Johnny Cakes?"
He laughed too. "I don't know."
Then I grew serious, my eyes dark with longing. I rubbed the sot off his face with the soft back of my white hand. I then rubbed my sooty fingers onto my apron. He held up my dirty hand and licked it clean. My apron remained soiled. It was 200 years ago. It was like yesterday. I felt his body relax as he touched my chilled flesh. He was on fire. My water and my skin put him out, and yet he burned for me.
He said "You are brave. It's dangerous with me."
I said "I would be more scared, and far more foolish, if I left you."
We both knew that. He drank the entire mug of water in one thirsty gulp. The mug handle, where he had just been gripping, was warm and moist from his firm grip. I held my hand up, and he passed the empty mug. I turned it carefully and slowly, till the handle was facing towards my mouth. My tongue drew forward and lapped up his perspiration off the handle. I watched his eyes watching my tongue work at it. It wasn't hard work. In fact, it was quite rewarding. I dropped the mug down by my shoes. He dropped to his knees. I joined him.
He took off his jeans and we laid down on the warm blanket. We could feel beneath the cloth the sharp stiff grass. A breeze blew my hair around my face. The air was salty, and clung to our bodies, so it felt like we'd been swimming. The sun gilt off the buttons of his jeans. I turned to watch his shoulders, the muscles twisting as his arms rotated to a comfortable position around my own body.
He kissed away my words, and then kissed away my thoughts. Soon, all that was left were my nerve endings, singing my passions, and the seagulls wheeling above us, crying back in response. The grass became flattened, I could even still distinguish it's fresh scent, even in my tranquilized state of arousal.
I remember his fingers in my mouth, pulling out my sounds and tasting of the waves. I remember how he moved to kiss my thighs, how he pulled off my skirt like a skirmish. I remember the sun marched across the sky, betraying our position, breaching our defenses. I remember the wind and the clouds were our allies, defending us from the the sun. It grew cooler and eventually we had to leave. When I bent down to pick-up my discarded shoes, I also grabbed the empty mug. I still have it, but I'll never use it. I'm saving it for our next battle.
Where the blanket had been, our torsos had pressed that grass into the convex ghost of two merged bodies; valleys that represented former peaks. Absence. And there - that abstract form, that imprint - there it lie, charmed into being by proximity to a lichen-covered fort and some 200-year old, black-painted cannons.
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Molly Pitcher was a nickname given to a woman said to have fought in the American Revolutionary War. Since various Molly Pitcher tales grew in the telling, many historians regard Molly Pitcher as folklore, rather than history, or suggest that Molly Pitcher may be a composite image inspired by the actions of a number of real women. The name itself may have originated as a nickname given to women who carried water and offered other comforts to men on the battlefield during the American Revolutionary War. - wikipedia
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Imagining Myself as Sita, Imagining You as Rama
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Posted:May 12, 2010 8:31 pm
Last Updated:Aug 15, 2013 11:41 pm
17740 Views
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Tell me to slip into your arms,
To caress your earlobes,
To lick your fingertips,
To crawl across your bed.
Pull me to your hard chest
Open my jaw with your thumb,
Slide your hungry tongue
Between my parted lips.
Run your anxious fingers
Along my quivering hips.
Wrap me in your passion,
Expose your every hot need,
By taking me and making me
Breathless, trembling.
Press your flesh to mine,
Every dark urge freed.
Grip my wrists, pour your
Soul into my lit eyes.
Moan my name, call me yours,
Breath my soft scent in,
and set my soul on fire.
I will be your Sita and
You will be my Vishnu...
My Rama, ever present in me,
Absolution, joined souls,
Everything - together as one -
We will rest in still waters,
Lotus will float amongst us.
Image: Warwick Goble
"Sita Finds Rama Seventh Avatar of
Vishu Among the Lotus Blossoms"
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13
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The of Babylon
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Posted:May 9, 2010 11:14 am
Last Updated:Aug 15, 2013 11:45 pm
17798 Views
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Seven bowls of pieced tusk
From thundering Ethiopian herds
Half-moon whispered words,
The messengers drank lustily.
Their work was done they were
Watched her sail across carpets,
A boat upon water, her trembling
Vast ripples subtle churnings,
All the clever envy ways she went
Shining like an oyster�s shell, she�s
Fresh-plucked, brining your tongue
Seductive like the warm Sudan,
Her oasis hips eclipsing allegros
Singing, her voice a windflower
Blown down from arid Mount Olympus
Slithering her scarlet edged slip,
Sliding out of her purple snake�s skin,
Her naked filth to bath in asses� milk
Straddling, she is a fierce warrior
Horsewoman of the Caucus ranges
Shimmering, her limbs arrayed in
Ropes of pearl, amber, opal, and agate
(She wears the words upon her)
But even if you were blind, even if you
Could not read her blasphemy and sin
You�d know the taste of her scent,
The smell of her thick perfumed blood,
Striding legs slicing across the fields,
The sun shining through, a triangle gash,
She upstanding and unapologetic, a very
General upon that hill, trumpeting victory,
Drinking deep, toasting you with her lust
The sacred tattoos wreathing her hard arms,
Her peerless visage, marking her immortal.
She wants to take him to her depraved 's bed.
She wants to be owned by him, to her soul, to her bones.
She wants to burn offerings to claim him to her womb, from the inside.
She will sacrifice a swan, a goat, a basket of river eels.
Does he know she will be this kind of creature for him?
That she will slice off her skin and feed him her heart?
Does he know what she can do? Her power?
That he will be able to hear her singing in his dreams?
She is urgent to feel him. Frantic.
She is The Mystery that he longs to unravel.
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Revelation 17:1 And there came one of the seven messengers which had the seven bowls, and talked with me, saying unto me, Come hither; I will show unto you the judgment of the great that sits upon many waters: With whom the kings of the earth have committed fornication, and the inhabitants of the earth have been made drunk with the wine of her fornication. So he carried me away in the spirit into the wilderness: and I saw a woman sit upon a scarlet colored beast, full of names of blasphemy, having seven heads and ten horns. And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet colour, and decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, having a golden cup in her hand full of abominations and filthiness of her fornication: And upon her forehead was a name written, MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTS AND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH.
Image: By propheticemcee titled " of Babylon IV"
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7
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Fountain of Youth
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Posted:May 5, 2010 11:50 am
Last Updated:Apr 14, 2011 4:33 pm
21288 Views
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Raining heavy�Wet, hard, thick rain. The sky wept when you left my bed. By the time you got to the car, your white shirt cling to your tan shoulders. They were begging to be released from their damp encasement. Your arms were meant to be around my soft warmth. Eggs are not as fragile as this fabric upon your torso. An ancient porcelain teacup is not as translucent as this fabric was, clutching your body, encasing you like an eggshell. I wanted to crack an egg and slide its slickness into a porcelain teacup, then upturn the cup into my lap and feel how the yolk slides still warm from the hen, glowing and bursting upon my pussy. Like your cock. I wanted to feel it, to show this decadence to you. I wanted you to bend down and suck up the burst yolk off my thigh, like your cock, releasing its spray of juices. I wanted to feel it, to show this decadence to you, this depravity of spilt yolk and clinging whites cascading over my pussy lips. I wanted you to bend down and suck up the burst yolk off my thigh.
Last night I remember climbing over your hairy thighs and wrapping my own smooth thighs around your hips. I remember grinding my wetness into your hairy hardness and sliding my cunt over your cock till you grabbed my arms, and rolling, pinned me down and mastered my pussy from above. Sliding in slowly, taking your time, my eyes on your face. Listening to your small sounds grow harder. Primal smells filling the air, and I think, my God - this man. I want him again. I want him in this bed with me again. I want him to take my every day till I die with his cock buried inside me. Bury me with his cock buried inside me. Carve us an Etruscan sarcophagus so that we may lie side by side for eternity.
The streetlight caught the swirl of the leaves sliding into the gutter. Forlorn like a beggar�s sin, they cascaded down into the eager drain. I hear the drone of the rain upon the roof. A summer storm makes me want to fuck on the top of a grassy hill with you. A summer storm makes me want to be pounded into some silt-fecund riverbank with you. I hear the drone of the rain upon the roof. It�s taunting me in my chrysalis of blankets and sheets. I smell the cunt and the cock on these sheets. It�s reminding me that you are without, while I am within. I�d rather be outside with you than remain in my little nest of fuck memories and fuck odors. I took. It was a long time coming, this present. You took. My presents for you wrapped so beautifully, you tore the paper and had them. A benediction of fucking with inquiries, fucking with impetus, fucking gently, and finally, fucking to oblivion. Transcendent of pain that budded ecstasy was our moments, which blossomed into a rankness of exhaustion. The rain kept falling.
And words, oh we spoke and we knew each other�s souls � my eyes heard your words before they left your mouth and your eyes answered back - we�re a matched set. Our time together wrote a couplet of verses and moisture. Your eyes were upon me, speaking ancient Mayan. Your fingertips chanted like a foam-mouthed sibyl, breathing in smoke through your pores. Your lips murmured Ancient Hebrew. Your tongue wrote Babylonian cuneiform on my ass. Your cock communed with Martin Luther and proofread his Thesis. All the languages I don�t know, all these words I have never seen, but my eyes understood them with you.
You call yourself old, but you are wrong. In fact, you are ancient, primal, primitive, and obscene. You are the oldest man, and I am the oldest woman. I am made of stone and sot. I am drawn with smoldering charcoal, my breasts pendulous and ripe. I am baked in a mud kiln, dug in a pit, and my haunches are caked with red ochre. You are the beasts with the massive dicks on the side of the cliffs, known as Tassili N�A jjer, found just South of the Atlas Mountains. You are more than 6,000 years old, and you are sacred. Tuareg men worship you and whisper your name. Tuareg women do not know your name, but they call to you when they are birthing.
You are Baal, sitting on your desert throne, with your heavy bull�s head and your ripe man�s body. I am Asherah, and I debase myself upon our bed, an altar in worship of you, my consort, my cherished darling one. Yes - I will slide my fingers into your pool of white fuck essence and then slip them out and fuck your face with my cum-covered fingers. And I will wear the antlers, and then you will wear the antlers. We will take turns fucking each other up the ass. You will teach me how you sound when your body releases energy, orgasms, and pity. I will play your body like a French horn, like the drums of our rituals. We will compose a symphony of lust; we will cover each other in grit and sweat, and lap it off each other�s body, like a deer at a salt lick. I crave you. You will think of fucking me and your body will grow taut, while your mouth will grow dry with longing.
You are a Green Man. You coil about the knaves of ancient dwellings, you are ivy and mistletoe, sacred clinging vines that will take over the stones and master them. You mask these stones with your verdant fertility, and they submit. It is a matter of time. You are the man in the fields of Pagan England who defied the Romans and went on dancing naked in the moonlight with me. We are wreathed in daisies and poppies, wheat and honeysuckle, our skin is coated in sweat, and we are numb to the cold night. . You are Pan, and I am every nymph with every wet hole, by every waterfall, in every sacred field, waiting for you to fuck me with your hairy fragrant cock. I will bend over and clasp my feet for you. I will open myself wide like a Sheela-Na-Gig. I will beg for you to fuck me with your fist, your hard strong wrist sliding finally against the sides of my pussy.
For you I am the cheapest in Paris, against the most rank of brick walls down some suspect alleyway. For you I am Heloise, and I am also Abelard. For you I am the pen of the poet and the poet�s sweetness. I am the consumption that killed him too soon, and the words that gave him immortality. It will be like that. And you will take my voice and melt it in your crucible and pour it into your hands, and it will pool about your thumbs, between the pads of your palm, and you will swallow it painfully. My words and your words will blend into one animal-fuck symphony of moaning and crying out.
Do you know how few men are offered this gift? Do you? You will see how it will be. Believe me, darling, I am just as old as you. We can be a matched pair of crones, fucking each other back to youth, cackling away in our orgasms while others are mystified yet envious. Throw back the sun and embrace this rain upon your back. Feel how wet you are and how much I want you. You are my Fountain of Youth. You are the water of life. And I am thirsty to drink you. Redemption and the Magdalena, for I feel that we are both seeking the most profanely pornographic fuck and the most liberating blasphemy in our pagan rituals. Twelve thousand years of thirst. I will be your Holy Grail. Fill me up. Bathe me. Saturate me.
"A Man and Woman Making Love" by Mih�ly Zichy
Plate I of "Liebe" circa 1901
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The Return of Odysseus
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Posted:May 2, 2010 5:41 pm
Last Updated:Feb 21, 2011 5:54 pm
16182 Views
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I circle your tongue with the tip of mine.
You echo the pattern back to me.
I lick the sides,
Underside and the top.
You echo back.
I suck your lower lip.
You echo back.
We repeat, repeat, repeat.
You echo echo echo back.
The sensations drive our emotions.
We are wild for each other.
You echo back.
You thrust your tongue in and out.
My tongue echoes back.
The movements are rhythmic and stabbing.
My body burns to echo back.
Back....back. Welcome back.
(This was written in a response to the following challenge: [post 2300452])
I've also taken the liberty of incorporating the image onto my own blog.
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10
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The Figurehead
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Posted:May 2, 2010 9:18 am
Last Updated:Mar 1, 2011 8:21 pm
16878 Views
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On the eighth shore,
Perfumed by the clove trees
of the Maluku Islands
she went down.
She’s gone to meet
Fernão de Magalhães,
Clutching after
a string of dead hope
in a foreign void...
She found him speechless.
They cut off his head,
The tongue dried black-
They cut out his heart.
Pickled it for delivery to
Beatriz (wailing Hail Mary)
She - carved of the bitter music
Of the cinnamon winds -
Her lines serenely beautiful,
Curves of her warmth flecked
with spume and brine…
Unfurling mizzens, wide apart -
Whipping flowing oaken robes,
Flaunting like wind-tossed tresses,
Facing every vagrant breeze, she glistens…
Bounding boundless beckons of lips,
I climbed upon the prow
To touch her sex,
I felt it swell and moisten, salty.
I fondled it the way she liked.
She sung for me,
in her mother’s tongue,
Arching her back:
“Täglich jenseits der Sterne Munde.”
Let me translate for you:
“Beyond the mouths of the stars.”
I replied: I have been there.
I have heard them speak.
Her eyes unblinking, steady-
I heard her hoarse voice creak,
The ropes against the mast…
Just let me see what’s beyond
One finer horizon, love!
Light line of wholly darkness.
My finite wisdom’s fragile caravel
Swift but delicate, rugged lateens,
Faint line of hapless demarcation –
She my galleon, so much more
Prepared for life’s gale forces.
Meridians of her thighs, parted.
Waiting beneath, upon the coral…
She was my mirror,
my light, my comfort,
My compass, my sexton,
and my true guide.
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“…that dreamy feathery lilt to the horizon means this frail ship won't sink nor will your bones be picked clean by the shrieking sea birds in your wake…” Joyce Carol Oates
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In Germany, Belgium, and Holland, it was once believed that spirits/faeries called Klaboutermannikins (water mannikins) dwelt in the figureheads of ships. The spirit guarded the ship from sickness, rocks, storms, and dangerous winds. If the ship sank, the Klaboutermannikin guided the sailors' souls to the Land of the Dead. To sink without a Klaboutermannikin condemned the sailor's soul to haunt the sea forever, so Dutch sailors believed.
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13
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May Day Musing
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Posted:May 1, 2010 8:50 pm
Last Updated:May 6, 2010 9:08 pm
13262 Views
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I want to plant some morning glory seeds along your spine and water them with my mouth. To watch them sprout and coil along your limbs, bursting open into mandalas of sky divinity, promise, and forgiveness.
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9
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Medusa's Hands
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Posted:Apr 29, 2010 7:36 pm
Last Updated:Jan 4, 2012 3:42 pm
16607 Views
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Words drive me to lunacy.
Luna worship. Luna prophecy.
And I imagine now - doing all
the things that bring aria,
Writing color, saying sound-
But with my hands immersed.
I'm stopping on the way home
from the bus to howl
at a translucent moon,
My sister her fire-face
cool burning kisses,
Out my fingers stretch to
feel her vulva - quivering.
I'm standing meek in
the hot damp of the bathroom,
My hands pinching and slipping.
I'm admiring my own milky flesh
in a slice of the mirror -
Here I am - a calm Medusa
who met her own fate,
and turned herself to stone.
Waiting...
Wires taunt - something snapped;
Tinny connections crackled
Images are snow and molasses
My hands are conducting,
They whir and dissolve -
All staggering out moans,
like melodic little wasps.
Go away and embrace
The muslin sheet bellowing, that
Sky of royal blue safety glass
shattered and like mica, it
will tap out its' tangled stars
and burns my hands with rain.
The reality of nothing there -
My lust-fast grizzled clouds,
My throat like ivy, the wild
Limbs of a marionette for him,
The pearl-lusty palms of my hands.
I'm leaking through my fists, my hands,
Glowing like the oven, pound -
This ink is blood to me, leading
'Charybdis guard the way,' I say,
give me give me give me that other...
At least I can write, and then - exhale.
Image: "Tatania" by Wing'd Thing
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9
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To link to this blog (Mariana_Trench_) use [blog Mariana_Trench_] in your messages.
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