Broken Places


Island of the Damned - Bocklin

It’s a risk to admit you’re broken and possibly beaten or just plain tired and hurting inside.

Risky to say you hurt both physically and emotionally because then the Pharisees and Sadducees appear with knives, razors and spears ready to slash you because you’re not the image or the person they want you to be.

Crying and tears are considered character flaws.

Once you fall out of the House of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm in essence you’re Fucked! Already down on your luck scavengers come to pick at your last bits of self-worth beating you down further than you already are.

Let’s be truthfully, Life is a Roller-coaster Ride.  You slowly inch up higher and higher then drop quickly to precipitous lows. But once you get down in that valley here come the Happy Police demanding for you to get out. Comparing you to others who are 25-30 years younger with circumstances unlike my own.  They want you to live lie. Be a fake or a phony.  Being Sensitive is a crime.  For me there is no refuge or sanctuary just rejection. Justice is sentencing to a lifetime in Social Media Wasteland.  A judgement and sentence I refuse to accept.

Seems these people never remember the times they were down and out.  When someone reached out to them with kindness and compassion instead of criticism and judgement. But for me the prescribed remedy is to rip the scabs off my scars yet still expect healing. I’m a Stigma, a failure because I’m not running through fields of tall grass and flowers singing tunes from the Sound of Music.

Even Jesus had to get away from clinging needy people with their hands out always wanting his miracles but not his teaching.  Jesus went up to a mountain or to a desert place all the while knowing his disciples, his friends would desert and betray him. Yup they threw the King of Kings and the Lord of Lords under the bus. In these Techie days folks just label you a Social Media Loser.

Broken Angel
Broken Angel

But he embraced his broken places but not their false expectations and I will do the same.  If you only accept me in my happy up times but not in my broken sad times why say you’re my friend at all?  Unfortunate to say, But there exists no Love or Respect for Broken Angels.

Caught Up………………..


Caught Up…………

Caught Up...........
Caught Up………..

 

Between Fire and Desire

A Rock and His Hard Place

A Thirst that needs to be Quenched

An Itch that Needs to be Scratched

Knowing and Wanting

Fear and Passion

 

Is He Just Buying Me Off with Fanciful Promises???

 

Twisted in Knots trying to decipher his code…..

Is it Just the Loneliness of Fast Approaching Old Age?

Will He Live Up to the Hype and Can He Handle Me?

 

Will My Storm Envelop him within a Tsunami of Long Suppressed Volcanic Eruptions?

 

Or is it all Just Lust and Curiosity??????????

Geechie Lover


Geechie Lover

I can’t seem to steadily fix your face in my mind. It keeps fading from view.

Yet my body remembers your hands on my thighs. Hungry eyes devouring my pheromone gaze.

Every day the beautiful lonely rosebud years for the stem eagerly awaiting pollination, satisfaction and release.

I feel the weight of your obsidian flesh keeping rhythm with my answering hips.

Geechie man where are you now? Are you favoring another with your charming 1000 watt grin?

Your imprint remains emblazoned on my mind, body and soul, Daily seeping into V-shaped orifice legs wrapped around your broad barrel chest.

 

Throes of Spiritual Passion
Ecstasy, Passion — A Holy Orgasmic Release.

 

Vulvonic Storms

Engulfing pleasure via penetration by the fire-tipped arrow of liquid bliss igniting climax, undulating quivering flesh cresting and falling waves beating against craggy muscular shores.  Repeatedly the sword is plunged into welcoming consummation releasing the rapture seminal fluidity ecstasy. A Rhapsody of convulsions enraptures my being casting me into sensual oblivion of volcanic bursts of molten lava shooting forth from Vulvonic cores.  Addicted to never-ending euphoria once again I levitate towards the Golden Flaming Spear scorched sweat washing into untamed grottos. Intensity of squeaks and yelps issue forth from formerly abandoned caverns answering the echoes of uncontained passion as a runaway beast charging, snorting and grunting smashing into the tight cavity taking command. A cacophony of primordial reverberations fill the bedchamber atmosphere exposing sweaty, grindy rumpled sheets infused with rainbow colors, orchestral violins and Angelic voices heralding the gale force winds of Solomon and Sheba eternal song.

 

Voice-Over


Voice Over

Listen to my voice. Listen to the sound of my voice intoned the old Victrola.

Throes of Spiritual Passion
Ecstasy, Passion — A Holy Orgasmic Release.

Leda began her hair color ritual in the usual way. She carefully laid out the tools of her trade on the bathroom sink and the top of the commode. Being a small bathroom there was not much space but Leda made do within her sanctuary. Hair color, towels, mirror, comb, gloves, check. Now Leda was ready. Using a wide tooth comb she divided her thick unruly curls into sections applying even amounts of color first to her roots then all the way through to the ends.

Pulling the comb through her mane Leda envisioned LeRoi’s rough hewn yet well groomed hands entangling themselves within the kinks and knaps of mother Africa all the while gently massaging her scalp and kissing the nape of her neck. Leda massaged the remaining color through her tangled tresses then set the timer for 20 minutes walking the short distance to her bedroom to meditate while the process worked its magic.

During the 20 minutes of meditation Leda visualized her lover LeRoi sitting next to her on the bed speaking softly and gently in his deep Country Kitchen flavored with hints of Brooklyn accent all the while kissing her brows, the bridge of her nose and finally her lips. He sometimes stopped to look deeply into her eyes mentally willing the both of them to become one flesh.

She could feel the bristle of fresh grown five o’clock shadow against her face all the while falling into a deep blend of mahogany skin intermingled with African, Native American and French blood lines. From his lips issued the voices of ancient Kings worshipping the Queens of Africa, Sheba and Candace. Raspy rivulets of Pleasure streamed down her thick thighs.  His hands, His lips, His body emoted sucker cup tendrils adhering to every sensitive site on her body.  Sighs and moans escaped softly parted lips.

Suddenly the buzz of the timer interrupted her reverie and off she went to turn on the shower preparing to rinse out the excess color treatment. As Leda stepped under the powerful flow of the water LeRoi’s spirit stepped in with her and they were transported to the thunder of Caribbean waterfalls, enveloped in thunder of the cascading streams. LeRoi’s hands were like the streams of water entering into every sensitive place of her temple. She could feel his lips and hands as they worked their way down from her neck, breasts to that soft mound of flesh above her pubic area where he loved to rest his head after a night of lovemaking.

He cupped her full derriere with his hands enjoying the firmness of a well developed ass pulling her in and closer to him.

Water and Burgundy ran down over the nooks and crannies of her curves. Fountains of scented oils sprayed anointing from the Seven Continents co-mingling with her own pheromone essence.

Water and Burgundy ran down over the nooks and crannies of her curves. Volcanic orgasmic waves shoot forth.

Ring, ring, ring, the sound of the phone brought Leda out of her fantasy and quickly toweled off and managed to answer before the machine kicked in.

“Greetings Empress of the Seven Lands. I just arrived at JFK. Taking a taxi to your place. See you in a few minutes.”

Leda rejoiced. Her fantasy was about to become real. Her Lover was almost home. Her thoughts wandered to a romantic tryst in the hot tub at their friends chalet.

Ebony Dark Chocolate Dreams ~ The Ultimate Orgasm


Ebony Dark Chocolate Dreams

His touch is Midnight seeping into my pores, saturating my veins and arteries, enveloping my very being. New galaxies are born when I am in his arms.

His voice is Throbbing Black Strap Molasses, Obsidian Opal honey dripped scented pleasure and I am a sponge absorbing every drop of honey syrup anointing. His pulsations become part of my being and we are in rhythmic unison.

Images of him undulate over a winding path from brain to heart. Match ignites flame causing trails of hot candle wax to slip into my peaks and valleys. We are a perfect coupling Symbiosis. We dissolve into the misty morning dawn, daybreak quenched fires, smoldering dreamily fantasy future liaisons.

 

Osiris & Isis
Osiris and Isis