Nothing of Consequence

I put on my makeup. I put on too little, or I put on too much. I eat, too little or too much. I smoke, too much. I drink, too little. I sleep like the dead, or I sleep like I'm on a cliff's edge.

Dressing is an effort, sometimes I just find the first thing, crumpled in a heap, and wear it. Sometimes I change 10 times before I am happy. Washing is an effort, sometimes I forget the arm that holds the sponge. Sometimes, I forget my mascara, or my deoderant, or my perfume, or to brush my hair.

My eyes feel dead but I am told they're not. My mouth feels desert dry, yet still I can speak. My legs feel heavy and weighted, except I'm walking. I ran half way home. I wanted to curl up on the warm grass and cry it all out of me. The tears flow so freely from my eyes that no-one notices any more.

I walk, and I am hazy, my vision is blurred. I am alien. Behind my sheet of glass. Stifled underneath the bell jar. The bulls look at me, and I imagine their eyes to be evil, they stare and I wish they would stop. I cross the road in front of the traffic, wondering what would happen if I lingered a few seconds.

The days blur together messily. My food doesn't fill me, my drinks don't quench my thirst. I smoke and smoke and read. Read anything. Books which whisk me into their world. Blog posts which have lain there for weeks unread. I am disturbed as I try to block everything out. He gets annoyed with my non-being.

I wonder if this is how he felt in those silent days. That lifetime ago before he found the rocks amongst the storm.

Every chat is laced with poison tips. Waiting for me to inelegantly brush past so they can dig in. I dramatasise, but no-one is listening. I am invisible now. Is it for me? Is it me? Is it for everyone else, these dramas, this sadness, emptiness? Or is it just me?

If it's not, then I guess this is a cry for help. Can anyone possibly do anything now, seeing as I don't know what to do myself, or what would help? I need someone to do it all for me. I feel small. And lost.

The Teaser

A hot, sticky, Indian summer of a day, just like the inside of her thighs as she strolls towards you. at least it might be beads of sweat, or it might be beads of nectar. Who knows? But you want to find out, as she strolls past you, brushing your arm gently with hers. Making each hair stand to attention. And your groin heading that way too.

Those shorts are much too tight for a guy's concentration, you growl in her ear. Depends what you're concentrating on, she purrs back at you. Right now, you tell her, all I can think about is reaching Nirvana. When do you finish?

It's your lucky night, she brazenly replies, I'm done in 10, let's go for a ride, my moped's out back.

You down a frosty one while you wait. The beads of condensation gently snaking their way down the bottle. Ice-cold when they hit your fingers. But not hers, you bet with yourself, hers could burn your hand off.

She hands you a helmet, flicks her hair at you and says let's go cowboy. She straddles her bike and you get on behind, closer than you need to, your hands firmly finding her hips. You wonder if she can feel what else is firm, like holding her at gunpoint. Her push back suggests that she can and she likes it. You grip tighter and she sets off.

Too soon you reach another bar, she dismounts, clips off her helmet, and shakes her hair loose. You stand there, suddenly unsure of yourself, until she juts out a hip, and asks, well, are you coming or not?

You sit at the bar and she orders two more cold ones, and two shots of something sickly looking. You watch her gulp it down, chase it with a mouthful from the bottle, and you see her shoulders drop.

As you echo her movements she takes your hand in hers and asks, you up for a fun night tonight? Of course, you huskily reply, as the burn sets in your throat, I'm up for anything.

Two hours later you find yourself unable to piss straight, seeing double, wondering how she managed to drink you under the table. You severly doubt your ability to show her a good time at present. But god those legs go on for miles, and the dancing and grinding to the heavy beats has got those beads cruising down her thighs once more.

When you get back out, she's bought a couple of bottles of water, she tells you to down it, we have places to go. You obey and head out of the packed bar. The night air and the water have their effect and you feel more lucid now, more in control, as you walk behind her, watching the sway of her ass.

She drives you to the beach, and walks you through the soft sand, at the waters edge she strips off all her clothes and damn does she look better than you imagined. She's about to make her way into the water when you shout stop, there's something I need to know first. You drop to your knees and enjoy the look of surprise in her face, you bring your tongue to the inside of her thigh, and gently snake it up. Stopping a modest distance away. You taste the definite salt, and the sweet nectar you imagined. You get to your feet and she asks, did you get your answer? Yes, you grin at her, I found out what I needed to know. Good, she says, come on then. And she walks into the water.

You rush to pull all your clothes off. Too many zips and buttons and a slight issue with coordination hamper you, but doesn't put you off your new goal. Nirvana, here I come, you think as you turn to face the gleaming water. You look for her, your eyes taken aback by the light bouncing off the weak waves. But she is nowhere to be seen. You run in and then dive, looking for her, search for a glimpse. Fearing something bad. You emerge without triumph, and then you've spotted her resting on a distant rock. Your swimming stroke has never been so strong as you make your way towards it. Towards her.

When you get there, however, you see it was a trick of the light. A cruel illusion. And she is nowhere to be found. You keep diving to see her, surely she is hurt, or playing a twisted game. But there is no trace. Eventually your tired arms give out, and you head back to the shore. Exhausted and bemused, you close your eyes, and wonder when you'll wake up.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPod touch]

The everlasting

He subscribes to the mantra of 'I only see what I want to see'. He is no seer, as he crushes darkness night orchids under his bloodthirsty feet. And her pep lasted only a deuce, before being one of those force-wilted flowers.

He wonders when his life became not his own, and when the explosion will happen. The mishmash fusion of the unequally fissioned. Tick tock, tick tock, ticktockticktock.

[beat]

She wonders when her life became not her own, and when the velveteen curtain will descend. The fade to black. Tick, tick, ticktocktick.

They prophesise, they lie, they deceive themselves. No saints, no angels, no martyrs. The everlasting.

The day dawn break heralds the end of another sleepless dreamless night. The end of distorted visions, of smack slammed doors, of oozing, seeping soul disturbances. There is no respite here.

Despair. The everlasting.