#lusting for whatever

[savageleewriting]

mouthfuls of mumbles

We. Are. Falling. Into. Sand.

Slowly.

I’m holding your hand with my own, and we’re falling, into soft wet sand, that goes down and down and down forever. Like a puddle that’s secretly a chasm that flows down into the centre of the earth.

Can you feel the pulse of hub of gravity? Is it dark down there? Is it light? Can you hear the churning gears of the clockwork world, as they spin their little notches around and around, moving us through space and thereby creating the illusion of time?

Let’s stop writing poetry, and go get pancakes. You think? Let’s leave our notebooks and our laptops behind, and go get sticky and sweet and kind of high on each other. Lapping up deliciousness like it’s going out of style. I want to get every last drop of you, before you go bad.

Let’s go out on the town, by which I mean, let’s just go back home and curl up like mean little cats, all flea-bitten and now looking for someone to bite. 

Biting.

Slowly. 

[savageleewriting]

Trippppping

We’re doing drugs like we’re surfing the internet; you know, just plug in, and then let’s go-

The world dissolves into strobing colours accentuated by wants mostly of a physical nature. We want to eat candy and fuck strangers. We want to dance. We want to set fires.

Human life feels tinted with pornography. Every smile is lewdly forward. You can feel every body’s nipples rubbing against the inside of their shirts or bras or whatever. You can feel their tongues twitching in their mouths. Twitching to get out. 

You say something stupid, something less useful. You breathe it in like bubblegum. You choke it down like a dessert that’s sweeter than what you’d intended to order. 

Syrup stains your lips and the front of your pants. You don’t even try to hide it. 

[savageleewriting]

Move Me; Muse Me; Make Me

munchflower said: Are you always writing about the same woman or do you have 1000 of them lazing about being muses?

There's so many women in my life, and a lot of them are primarily mythical, somewhere between fantasy and non-fiction. 

I do write about lost loves from time to time. I suspect one or two might glance across these pages, and be somehow slightly warmed to see the torches I keep burning. 

There are those who currently hold my attentions. Lovers, partners, crushes. Girls I like to play with, girls I love to live with, and girls I can't ever seem to get close enough to.

I write a lot for girls from comic books. Tank Girl and the more feminine members of the X-Men. Robot girls with grinding gears for sexual organs. Angry, bitter, serial killers lose on the road through the desert of the North American backroad ways. 

I write to create a Tulpa; an idea-form that will present herself to me in full reality, just as I'd dreamed her. I've done it before. I'll do it again. I'll shape this whole reality to be something I'd like it to be, and everybody I meet will just be happy to adapt to that crazy new worldview. 

I write for you, always for you. For whomever might be reading this page. Maybe you're tired, maybe you're full of lust, maybe you're sentimental, maybe you're bored. You're young or you're old. I've never seen you; those photos aren't really you and they're too strange and blurry anyway. You're a stranger, and idea, a story I made up and told myself:

Once upon a time there was this lovely girl, and she followed my blog and quite enjoyed the writing she found there. And she thought I was cool and she thought I was sexy and she made me feel like maybe I was those things, and like a vampire, I devoured her and her delicious energies and used them to fuel my unholy pursuits of fame and novelty and fortune and probably more delicious girls full of delicious energies. 

I'll tell you this much, not for nothing;

I never step in the same river twice. 

[savageleewriting]

Blossoming Only At Night

My girl.

She's like an angel dipped in crude oil. You can almost hear her, suffocating in this cruel, senseless place.

Get a drink. Something watered-down and bitter, just like what you see looking back at you in every reflective surface. 

How long's it been since you had anything to eat? Hours turn into days which quickly become weeks. You're surviving on cigarettes and coffee and packets of crackers. It makes you mean, and that meanness is like a tool on your belt you're used to reaching for. It's comfortable in your hands.

She rips into you like she's trying to get the prize from the bottom of a new box of cereal. She's all sharp edges and winking eyes, like a pair of scissors, cutting out optical receptors. 

Watch her knife dance between her fingertips. Watch her dance out across the barroom floor. Watch her watching you like the way big lizards stalk prey down at the watering hole. 

She doesn't love you.

Or anything.

She just likes the ways you taste

on 

her

lips.

[savageleewriting]

Daylight Drips

I'm not looking for an excuse or an escape, I'm just looking.

Eyes wide open, I'm gazing up at the sun, and just soaking in the radiation. Let it boil the meat around my bones.

I'm sharply aware of the thin blades you're using to slice away at my ego and skin. I feel you forming me out of thin air, and casting away the bits you have no use for. Internal organs and childhood memories are useless to you. All you need is skin and muscle and something that projects poetry like an offensive tactic. 

I'm in love with you the way a hammer is in love with a nail. The way a lawnmower loves long grass. The way a toaster loves pop-tarts.

Yet, here we sit. Trapped on a spaceship the shape of a great silly rock, spinning through the air recklessly. No captain at the helm. No greater purpose to our actions. Our actings. 

I pretend I'm here, but the time you're reading it, I'm gone, gone, gone... And by the time I'm back again, you've always moved on.

[savageleewriting]

Everything You Ever Wanted: Broken

We all came here for the same things. We fumble down laminated menus that're splotchy with sexual fluids. Cum drips, and leaves streaks. The waitress leans in and tells us she's wet like she really wants us to know about the weather outside.

We came here because we were hungry. Thirsty. Because we had needs we were looking to have filled. Yeah, warm empty slots of want that we needed stuffed full of knowledge and sweet sticky honey.

She goes down on me like I'm the last cigarette in the package. She savours my taste and exhales me around the room. She chokes and coughs, demurely, like a lady. Like a lady who lives on her knees.

I went out looking for something. I wanted to strike sparks. I wanted to drown in my own deliciousness, my own terrible ideas. 

The couple next door make love like spiders. They're hideous little monsters full of poison and lackadaisical drives. They spend most of their days hiding in the dark, licking and petting at each other.

I just wanted to find myself. To free myself. To go fuck myself.

[savageleewriting]

She Types Nice Letters

We had a very sexual relationship, but it was a very digital one too. 

We never met; she just downloaded my instructions, like I'd written a book on how to obey me and follow me around. 

She took artful, nude photos, and then photoshopped herself into them. The pictures would come with little notes, "That's me, hidden behind the tall oak tree." Or, "There I am, just in around the giant black dildo." 

There were quiet times, like waiting for an email response, which felt like waiting for a ride to stop. I could almost hear her, typing, touching herself... There was a texture to the moment, like nipples sliding across a screen. 

She reached through my meanings and intents and the thousands of miles between us, and she tried to find me, in amongst all the garbage generated by my personality. The spiralling chords of my junk DNA slamming up against my insides like a fly trapped behind glass. She reached for me, and caught hold of some ethereal aspect of what I am.

In her hands I trembled, frayed, and was understood to be made whole again.

We were close, intimate, strangers. I didn't know her real last name, and she loved me only for my strange and sometime unwieldy bodily responses. 

She was like a kiss from the other side of the grave, turned digital.  A bit of fornication hidden in the middle of a fax. 

[savageleewriting]

She's Not Here, And Neither Am I

She's a lewd little list of sexual preferences; wants and whimsies and things she thinks she'd try at least once, if she was asked just right. 

She's got a leash and a box of dildos and a nasty little smile that reminds you of a razor-blade when the lights are half-off. She's got an internet connection and a bunch of digital friends on the other side of a camera. She's got heartaches she sells by the pound.

She starts her morning with coffee and blood; bloodshot-eyes, or a big mug of thick redness, spilling out and over and down the page. 

She leaves a little list of things she'd like right next to the bed. No names, just positions and scenes from films she'd like to try to emulate. Motion Pictures like Mindy Deepthroats The Moon and Quiver Hunt. She strays onto fetish websites, on the lookout for new desires to dream about. 

I love her, I suppose, the way a gardner loves the sunlight he toils and sweats beneath. I love her like a razor loves flesh. She adorns my mind like the silvery tinsel garnish of a Christmas tree; she's all shiny and bright, and when I get to close, she chokes me down.