Dreams wake
Where pains echo in dark rooms made of flesh and furtive glances
Where lips pressed together and teeth bare down
Licking blood in soft moan
Whispers bearing weight
Promises kept always
Always better than promises made
The joy of half heard breathing
Murmured in ears
Heavy with sleep
Safe but not safely
Negotiated bliss
Watching her stretch
Mine in the warm glow of morning
Month: August 2019
Drowning drip by drip
Dreams bring no rest
Only mysteries
Dystopian
Running in place
Lost a still yearning
Broken piece jigsaw
Death and lies until all jumbled
Breakdown
Lasts words turn to wet sand
Dribble out of mouth
Painful lost hope living
Rejected solutions
Yes’s and no’s
Plans for the future
Waiting for that rejection
That always comes
Faith broken
Steel plate fallen away
What’s a real relationship anyway
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Nightmares are also dreams Part 34
The photographer walked in rumpled and a bit worse for wear.
“He must have given the guards a hard time,” I murmured to Sara.
“Just as long as he’s professional, this should be fine,” replied Sara.
I watch his eyes wander the decor. Lingering over the more functional and esoteric pieces of furniture. Eyes finally centering on Sara, Tara, and I.
His breath hitches a bit when he realizes Tara is wearing only body painy but he then ignores us and sets up his gear.
This whole process is like getting a tattoo. Cool in concept, awesome when it’s finished but mostly dull with some moments of excruciating pain thrown in just to keep it interesting.
He moves us around like marionettes. Positioning us to catch the light of the fading sun. Moving Tara so that she’s between us or at our feet. Calm and efficient.
And finally he packs up and promises to have the pictures ready soon for us to look at and pick through.
Sara looks exhausted and Tara seems like she’s ready to get out of the body paint.
“Sara, if you would be so kind as to call the guard station and tell them to start phase 3, we can go and rest for a bit.”
“Tara, get your cute butt to the shower. I’ll be in shortly to wash you.”
Tara minces her way past, each step a study in sleepy seduction. She looks back over her shoulder and smiles that knowing smile. The soft flash, there and gone as she disappears around the corner.
Sara looks at me and asks, “What’s phase 3?”
“Just a private meal and some alone time. I thought we’d cater in. I presumed we’d be too tired to cook much of anything.”
Sara smiles up, eyes flashing through half lidded eyes, “But what if I’m hungry now?”
I smile, “Well, presumably, you will find something to eat that is to your liking.”
Her hands reach to my waist and the sounds of metal against leather unclasping hiss through the room.
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Song of the Day – She’s the one edition
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Sipping blood wine
Burn the world
And drown the sun
Bleed the sky
And shatter the earth
What was past is breaking
What is future haunts my dreams
And ever onward sits the raven
Perched above
Expecting
Waiting for falter
Waiting for ruin
Made broken
I tire
And waking is no blessing
For a man
Whose lived past his time
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I missed a post.
It occurs to me that I missed a post on Monday. For the first time in more than 3 years…
On the one hand, I can justify it by saying that yesterday was a crazy day and I stopped at the end and just passed out.
On the other, I have to decide if that is just a bullshit excuse. If being tired and busy excuses a failure of honor. Of a promise made.
And I have to say, it does not.
That may seem harsh. That lapses occur and that things sometimes fall apart.
But
The reality is that I thought several times yesterday of writing or posting something and I chose not to.
We make time for the things that matter to us.
Fundamentally, that is what this is.
While my writing matters, it is the interaction with others that I miss. And my page has become a ghost town of likes thrown out like flowers. And I sit by the passing parade, alone.
I’m more connected now than I have ever been and yet I feel so alone. I feel like I’m just getting my feet as those that I love are moving into new phases. And leaving me behind.
And I feel no jealousy for them…but I do feel this dull ache of everything changing and being lost in the background.
A fallen leaf, once part of the community, drifting down, away from succor into the dying light of autumn.
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Counterpoint memories, future’s unfurl
Time slipping by
Drifting out
Forming waves
Crashing into a future
With you
Destination and journey unfurl
All that was becomes prelude
To an is
That is us
A few steps more
Times passage marked by love
And all will be changed
All in
Always
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In the still quiet of afternoon light
On swift wings
Through haze of pain
Waits the eyes
To close in slumber
And drift away
To the simple shelter
Of unswept dream
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Nightmares are also dreams Part 33-The Photographer
I pull onto a private road that goes back into one of those McMansion neighborhoods. All clean lines and faux luxury finishes. Lush parks only seen by toddlers and nannies and midrange luxury vehicles when little Ethan and Tad play soccer.
The house is at the end of a long street ending in a cul-de-sac and only has one neighbor. The lot to the right appears to be some kind of guard house. Figures that this neighborhood would have its own private security.
To the left the house is a standard two story with windows streaming in light. Hell, even the door has windows. It’s the ultimate show piece. Look at my glass house and all the fabulous toys.
The house to the right has the same arrangement but all the windows are silvered and reflective.
And there is something off that I can’t put my finger on. These are supposed to be wedding photos…so where are all the cars?
Anyway, the jobs the job. I park on the street and get out my camera bags. Time to schlep like a sherpa. I really need an assistant. But assistants cost money…maybe an intern…
There isn’t a doorbell so I put down my bag, gently, and reach for the door knocker when a voice from a hidden intercom says, “Look up, into the camera.”
Startled, I look around until I see the camera perched in the upper right.
The feminine voice demands, “State your name and business.”
“Jonathan Franks. No relation,” I say with a smile. “Wedding Photographer.”
“Hold out your arms, perpendicular to your legs,” the voice states.
Rolling my eyes, I set down my other bag and hold out my arms. What are they going to do laserscan me?! This is such bullshit. I’m adding an asshole surcharge to the bill.
I jump when hands start running along my arms and back.
“What the fuck?!,” I demand.
“Sir, just hold still and this will be over soon.” That same feminine voice from behind me this time.
Mentally adding 5% to the surcharge, I hold still. Every nook and cranny is poked and prodded.
These rich bitches. Security as status symbol. Like it wouldn’t be in the camera cases if I was smuggling a weapon.
“Ok sir. Walk with me to the security building and we will get you processed and x-ray your gear.”
Fuck this. I’m hitting them with my 50% crazy bastards surcharge. Even with that, I know this is gonna be a shit gig.
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Hopping bird takes wing
Lyrics yet to be sung struggle out
Yearning to quiver and shake
Swallowing back syllables
No voice loud enough to be heard
Stifled
Fighting for breathe
Pleading eyes
Begging to be known
That distant air
Promises made
Always one more to keep
One more to make whole
Distant thunder
Storm blessed
Sky drawn
Woken anew and shift gold
Breaks broken
Arrows flown true
Time for us
One more turn on the wheel
Pelgris 