I Was Wild, Savage, Human

Red is soothing (to me). The same is true of sex, laughter, creative ripping (paper or fabric), and of reading and writing containing the aforesaid bits. So, when my flesh and bones hurt so bad that sleep is an unbelievable dream that could only happen to extremely lucky fictitious characters, I call on red and we go wild.

I’ve been in ridiculous pain for a few days. The throbbing started under my left scapula, then it spread to my left hip, my left gluteus maximus (I’ve always loved that word), the back of my left leg… all the way to my toes *red, red, red*.

Still, I’m not unhappy. I’ve had moments when I was angrier than a mantis in heat who has just discovered he is a male, but not unhappy. I’ve written a lot of fiction, stitched several poem bits, and blacked out (red-out?) seven or nine pieces.

There were tense moments when I cursed Comfort (in creatively ripped red):

Another time, I crafted a blackout poem that is all sex (joy and sweat and screams and bliss-filled old lies howled out of pleasure-drunk-panting lips):

Earlier, when pain made me shake and shrouded my all in chills, I laughed (crying cackle-coated tears), lay on the bathroom floor—cool tiles *and the right book* are such a blessing… Then, after Laural Merlington finished narrating the 3rd chapter of A Stroke of Midnight, I dragged my flesh and bones to my writing space, and with hands that barely shook, I red-out a note about Pain and Me:

*the background is from Vampiros, illustrated by Meritxell Ribas Puigmal*

Things are better. Some of my bits are still screaming. But something tells me that tonight, I’ll kiss the Sandman on the mouth… and will both like it.

Our Memory Remains (or should)

Let’s celebrate freedom, you say. And I rage and rage and rage… and wail. I reach for the word—free—and the fingertips of my left hand almost touch the fringes of a cloak… before the torn fabric of how things should be gets lost in mayhem made of your wind and the reality storming over the unlucky many.

Let’s feast, you say, firework the heavens for a night. Yester-days are gone, grab today. And I search and search and search… and weep. I reach for answers in your eyes, and see that time suppressed terrors and common sense, but memory remains.

freedom is real
only when enjoyed by all,
let us remember

.
the wee notes…
– This haibun was partly inspired by this blackout poem.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Tuesday Platform.

Becoming One

Sometimes I’m terrified of my heart; of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants. The way it stops and starts.” Mama Zen shared this Poe quote, and then asked, “What are you hungry for?  Tell me…” And my Muse told her…

.
Touch me
yours and wild
in the dark,
make the sun

yearn for moon-
light memories,
of you and me
becoming one.

.
the wee notes…
– After rereading this wee bit, I can’t help but wonder if the speaker lives in “My Sweet Night-Mare” poem. It sounds like one of them talking, don’t you think?
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Play It Again Toads! (Words Count with Mama Zen, Jan 2015), and Poets United ~ Poetry Pantry.

artwork by Petra Hlaváčková
(Petra is a tattoo artist, from the Czech Republic.
I’m enthralled by her ink and watercolors).