Book, Frog, Skull, Stone, Hammer (and, oh yes, a penis bone)

The way to my heart is dark, dark,
darkness brightened by books, frogs,
skulls, and peaches my lips drink

one life-kissed poem at a time.

At 13+13+13+1+1 (love the odds),
my skull wants
wild things (horrors and bliss) inked
life that hops and transforms

like a frog (or Muse)
waiting to inspire, or birth

stories…

 

Really, my Wicked Luvs. Poetry might not be all fact, but it’s all true. For my wild-witchy-writer-heart, happiness is full of books and frogs and skulls and peach wine and hammers and stones and… after visiting The Oddities Spring Flea Market, it also contains a penis bone. By the way, when I got the penis bone, I promised I would say penis bone as often as I could.

“Penis bone,” the writer whispered while grinning like a maniac.

So… I am 41-years-delicious. I am a tad healthier than I was last year. Must thank the Universe, my Piano Man, my ink, doctors, and you… for that. My sexy flesh and bones and I are strong enough to go back to indulging in real exercises (not just those damn “therapeutic” stretches, which I’m convinced are the bastard kissing cousins of torture). A day at a time, right? Of course.

I want to show you some of my birthday gifts, because… well, I’m an Aries and according to the scientology god of memes, we Aries love showing off our skulls (I’m pretty sure I just made that up). But hey, it could be true.

The super-Girl-child, she’s just too grown up to continue being the “Little Princess”, you know? Anyhoo, the super-Girl-child made me a skull out of LEGO pieces. She said, “It’s a vampire skull, ‘cause it’s bloody. Get it?” Yep, I get it. 😀 My favorite of the gifts I got from my Piano Man is the 1st American Gods graphic novel. There was much squealing… Followed by serious cooing, when I saw the happy frog pillow case my MIL made me.

My friends from the hospital got me a wee plate, a tiny bowl, and a small glass, in celebration of going back to eating as I wish. You see, when I’m on certain meds I have to eat a lot. So, now that they’re gone, I get to eat like my wicked self likes. I prefer small portions many times a day.

A few paragraphs above, I said I was going to say penis bone as often as I could. Well, I gifted me the penis bone of a badger and an orbicular jasper stone. The stone fits perfectly in my hand. The penis bone sits rather nicely next to one of my hammers and allows me to say penis bone quite often. 😀

Rommy, did not get me a penis bone for my birthday. Nope, she got me a sledge hammer. I love it. And yes, I’ve been hitting people with it.

I didn’t hit Rommy with the hammer she got me. I didn’t even hit her with the penis bone I got for myself. I don’t think one is supposed to hit friends with one’s penis bone. Friends are for smiling like a blurry lunatic with.

See? Told you. Um… the creepy rabbit demanded to be photographed.

So, what have you been up to?

He Was Ridiculous… and Amazing

I enjoy hand-stitching for the same reasons I adore hammers, the colors red and black, Terry Pratchett’s writing, and the sky on nights when the moon is darkest. I won’t tell you why I love those things. Not because it might creep you out—I’d probably delight in that—I won’t tell you why because we don’t need to know each other marrow deep to be friends. If we do, then we really aren’t.

The idea of jumping off a bridge because everyone else is doing it disgusts me. But if the day (or wild night) comes when jumping is the only way forward, I shall leap into the precipice without bitching about it—my thoughts, legs, and spine must be all cat.

I’ve landed on my feet, and broken a few things before rolling with the punches takes hold of the metaphor. I’m prejudiced against welcomed stupidity. People who hurt others because they know they can get away with it should spend a lot of time on their knees being thankful to a curly-haired one-eyed woman who smoked a pipe.

I write because not doing so would kill me slowly (or someone else). I love for similar reasons. Today, I woke up in a world where my best friend was alive. Now he is dead. And I’m angry. Because the world is a bit emptier and it didn’t have to be.

The whole world will miss you, my bird of terrible feathers. And I will miss you most.

One Halloween, when we were still teenagers, he dressed up as… something covered in fake chickens. I remember asking, “What in the name of Hades’ fiery balls are you?” He said, “I’m a sexy beast.” When puzzlement showed that I couldn’t follow his logic, he added, “You know, ‘Just erotic. Nothing kinky. It’s the difference between using a feather and using a chicken.’” He was that kind of ridiculous, that kind of amazing…

May your soul fly high on laughter and bad jokes, you sexy beast…