The Pretty Corpses of Flowers

I was about to post a rant about some woman who wanted to sell posters of one of my blackouts… without paying me. But as I reread what I wrote, my blood began to boil… So, I deleted the whole thing, and opened my “Awesome Things My Love Says” folder.

My sexy Piano Man has a way with words that reach my heart and my funny bone. The other day, he texted me after a show, to say, “Warning! I’m bringing home some flower corpses.” He knows I don’t much care for flowers that have been cut just for decoration, and he also knows that if the poor things were already mutilated, I wouldn’t want their sacrifice to be for nothing. I do my best to find a way to show them some love.

It was a big bouquet. Some of the flowers are still drying. But the roses, carnations, and some greenery and fillers (whose name I don’t know), have dried quite prettily.

I used a rose petal on this stitched poem. Some of the outer petals I offered to the moon, now sit by my typewriter in view of the window. I put together a bouquet I can glimpse while I’m writing. The leaves and other greenery went in a jar until the muse thinks of something. The fillers are in a wee bowl, in front of a sculpture of Old Man Death (you know how much the grinning Reaper loves his flowers).

By the time I was done, I was grinning as toothily as… well, as toothily as me. Playing with nature (even mildly dead nature) is good therapy, picturing the bloody things my muse thinks should happen to those who want to steal our mind-babies… not so much.

Sexuality Is in the Head

“You cannot divide creative juices from human juices. And as long as juicy women are equated with bad women, we will err on the side of being bad.” ~ Erica Jong

.
None can know
me, what drives me wild
in the mind,
what speaks to the swells
of my hips and breasts…
the way I do.

Hands I allow
on me are a gift,
a pleasure partnership.

Hands and fingers and thought
tracing skin, feeling muscle and bone
ruled by said skin’s own brain
need no partner for joy—
gifts are good, entitlements are better.

Sexiness begins in your head—
touch your mind deeply,
love your body often.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” sexuality
is in my head (and in yours
if you want).
To celebrate it,
take your body and soul
and make yourself yours.

.
the (not so) wee notes…
– Since Beltane—a witchy holiday that brings sexuality to my mind—was in, um… my mind, I asked the members of a private Crohn’s disease forum I belong to about their sex life. Many answered that their sex life was just fine, thank you very much, and can we talk about our ileums and rectums now? Others said that the illness has affected their sex life, but they have adjusted accordingly. The most prevalent answer was a variation of, “I’m single”. So, I added, “What about sex with yourself?” Some people (all right, a whole lot of people) left the session without typing another word.

Those of us who stayed on the forum spent some time discussing sexuality, morality, and the relationship between body and mind when it comes to physical pleasure. It was an enlightening conversation. I was puzzled by the number of mature adults who confessed to have never masturbated—not because of religious taboo, but because they are married or because the idea of touching their own bodies makes them feel dirty. I left the forum hoping for minds freed of nonsense that pushes people to believe that physical self-love is filthy behavior or something to be ashamed of.

Keeping that (and other juicy wonders) in mind, this Beltane, or May Day, or on this 1st Monday of the 5th month of the calendar year, I wish you lots and lots and lots of physical love (if you want it), especially from you to you. Be human, enjoy your Self.

– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Tuesday Platform.

The blackout that fed the poem…

…and a flower that seems to be rather proud of her sexuality
(yep, the Thunbergia mysorensis is most definitely a girl)