on the rocks

i tasted you.

somewhere between memory

and the burnt amber touching my lips.

(i should drink more often)

Whiskey

(same script, different poison)

Advertisements

All of your darkest parts

The strength of your invisible ties.

Like so many men, your sense of right and wrong came first from that book, and the tap-tap of a judicious spoon. Later it would be your father’s girly magazines, and a box to the ears for disrespecting your mother. Decency wrapped itself around your wild parts; love was metered out in ancient verse, and trips to the bathroom at your father’s office.

I can’t imagine how much you pushed right down when they told you lust was a shameful sin. How the cravings fizzing and floating in your little head went underground. I know the first woman you desired ripped it right out of you, unexpectedly, inconveniently – and how it thrilled you. She was older, you spent a summer fucking every afternoon, and learning to keep the hunger a secret; it fit right in with what they told you about sex and shame, the way you couldn’t take her home, and how it made you feel queasy to think about her. Until she would stand naked in front of you again, and the world would spin a different way. They hadn’t prepared you for how good this would feel, how secrets and lies made the release even better. It was the best summer of your life, and also the most dangerous. When you went back to school, and she went back to her husband, you were relieved to find yourself back on solid ground. You took a nice girl home to mum and dad, and the world righted itself.

You never saw your first lover again.

You spent the rest of your life trying to keep a lid on what had spilled out, to flee what you had discovered. And of course it worked until this Pandora came along. When I pried open that lid, and sifted through the troubles I found there. As they hit the light, your sins were the most beautiful things I’d ever seen. Lust. Curiousity. Hunger. Passion. They had all survived their time underground.

You don’t have to hide these from me, I told you, as I laid them out before you. They are my sins, too.

I know I reminded you of that first woman. And I like to think that if she was the first, I became your greatest sin. The desire for truth that would not be reasoned away. I like to think you understood yourself better when you were in my arms, Mack. That I eased your burdens, just a little. By loving all of your darkest parts.

Because it is as great a tragedy as any, don’t you think? This idea of living somebody else’s truth. All these walls we’ve build between comfort and desire, just to hide what we know.

And how being true to oneself has never been considered the ultimate act of faith.

#

“Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heartache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty.

Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. there is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there.” – Henry Miller

Start with your hands

From December 2012:

Start with your hands. I want you to place them here. And here. And here.  So much to discover if you take it slow, and I want you to take it slow. I want to feel the restraint (yours, not mine). I want to see the pulse in your tendon, the quick in your veins. I will tell you when it’s time to push bit to teeth, to run. I will tell you when to let go. I will throw open the gate and invite your release. But first, take it slow.

I know you’ve been here a thousand times before. But this. This is brand new. This is a revelation. This is an indoctrination. You have forgotten how to be surprised, and I will teach your body to remember. I want your body to remember. The very first, the shock of skin. The way that eyes flash and lock. I want your body to remember this.

So put your hands on me. Each finger tip holds a thousand stories. Dip them in ink and write me your history. Leave a trail of words that seep into my bones. I want to read what you have written there. I want to know where you have been, what you know. Tell me what you have to say, and what you have swallowed. Put your words into my mouth. Let me sing them back to you. I will be gentle with your song.

Start with your hands. All I want is this. And you. All I want is you.

Rock Bublitz portrait by Joanne Piechota

All that from an elevator ride. Yikes. Some volcanoes are merely sleeping …

Eidyia’s note: Keeping up my tradition of revisiting pieces a year later. Love what this little flight of fancy signified back then (a slow and sure waking for this writer). It also remains a valid reason as to why certain people should never read my stories 😉

Topography

It turns out convention was a tie loosely bound. I take civility and grind it to dust the first time you make me come. The way your hand slides between my legs. And your words. The electric shock of your desire.

I want to kiss you here.

I forget everything I know but my body remembers. Impossible, we have not done this before. And yet. There is the inexplicable feeling of return when you cause a thousand nerves to jump and collide. You kneel before me, make of me a temple and with each stroke the tenuous chain gives a little more, it breaks apart with every oh god that rises up against it. I bare my teeth at you, a snarl that wants to catch your flesh and taste your salt on my tongue. Whatever bound us to the rest of our lives shatters in the explosion that ensues. Our landscape forever alters and you map it as I come.

I will come to covet your body with the intensity of one who borrows and must give back. This is a constant reaching, a constant touch. There is a need for tactile reassurance that overpowers my borders and my limits. You have a wall around you – what was that they said? With you I smash this wall myself, frantic, fingers pulling at any barrier between us. God, I can never get close enough. I bite and scratch and wrap my arms and legs around you. I tell you that you are mine. I invoke possession as the law.

I draw roads and rivers across your skin. I landmark our bodies, a topography laid down through the trace of thumb, the pressing of palms. Territories are charted with mouths and hands. You learn of my heights and my depth, you discover the part of me that resides below sea level, and the parts that contain the highest of mountains. Against the terrain of your body I spend nights raising indelible flags to mark places I too can claim. I was here this kiss states. I was here this sliding of my hand declares. I was here this touch of tongue to nerve blazes.

It would seem those who aim to conquer are desperate to be known. Even when the map disintegrates and we can no longer find our way back we keep on trying to make our claim. We mapped our world so quickly, Mack. Why did we never give any thought to how it might be destroyed?

Rock Bublitz at body, remember

This is a work of fiction. And yet …

Room Service

Hotel beds remind. The pink powder scent and unyielding sheets. Toes pushing up against clinging cotton, fingers drawing on threaded walls – there are things the body remembers in a room that hums.

Bath. Wine. Bed. I said at the start.

No room service? you replied.

And I said that it would come … but much, much later in the night.

Joanne Piechota photography at body, remember

Image: Joanne Piechota

All I want …

Start with your hands. I want you to place them here. And here. And here.  So much to discover if you take it slow, and I want you to take it slow. I want to feel the restraint (yours, not mine). I want to see the pulse in your tendon, the quick in your veins. I will tell you when it’s time to push bit to teeth, to run. I will tell you when to let go. I will throw open the gate and invite your release. But first, take it slow.

I know you’ve been here a thousand times before. But this. This is brand new. This is a revelation. This is an indoctrination. You have forgotten how to be surprised, and I will teach your body to remember. I want your body to remember. The very first, the shock of skin. The way that eyes flash and lock. I want your body to remember this.

So put your hands on me. Each finger tip holds a thousand stories. Dip them in ink and write me your history. Leave a trail of words that seep into my bones. I want to read what you have written there. I want to know where you have been, what you know. Tell me what you have to say, and what you have swallowed. Put your words into my mouth. Let me sing them back to you. I will be gentle with your song.

Start with your hands. All I want is this. And you. All I want is you.

Rock Bublitz portrait by Joanne Piechota

All that from an elevator ride. Yikes. Some volcanoes are merely sleeping …