Our Strange Creature

She touches us to make herself and others feel. She doesn’t push, or force us to do unspeakable things. In her eyes, a wild hunger forever yearns for new ways to suck on life’s bloody bones and share the taste with all. Her kind has heart and brain that must feel deep and tell true, or implode. Emotions are her most valuable playthings, reality a malleable tool. She can be silent, but her mind and tongue stay at the ready. When her ink quickens, the best of us burst out of her fingertips to spread our feels.

“I played with rare things—
brains in love. Lust? Yes, with care.
Lust never plays fair.
He will ride you for three lines
and leave you without ending.”

She knows we are as real as she is fresh, as wicked as people make us, ever-willing to change and grow. We tell tales like few others can. The smallest of us can put an end to wasteful death, agree to live. Have you ever met them? No? Yes? They are famous.

“Nouns are made of dough,
best when mixed and teased till… ‘Yum!’
Once, I ate a verb
that filled me with wanting
to be sated by poems.”

She’s our strange creature, crazy about us (sane, too… but only on days when the world turns into a rotting lemon that allows for no enjoyably practical approach). We love how she writes us. She loves how we ride her. We live in her blood. She breathes through all of us. Once, she ate Love in three bites and he curled up around her bones.

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the wee notes…
– Written for October’s Heart-Bits with Magaly, 2017: Love Is Love Is Love… and Words. Our posts must contain one magical element (the narrator of the prose bits is a Word Collective) and some sort of love (my chosen loves are, well… Words).
– This is pure word lust. I had a world of fun thinking about it, and then writing it to share with you. Cackles reigned. I hope you enjoy it (and Love really loves it). 😉
– Linked to Poets United.

part of the blackout that inspired this poem
see the complete piece on my Instagram

“Love Is Love…”, by the sweetest and dearest Shelle Kennedy
(she paid me to say that… in mango frosting)

When the World Starts Stinking this Much, We Must Art Ourselves Some Potpourri

“Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.” ~ Lady Chatterley’s Lover, by D.H. Lawrence

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I had an interesting conversation with a friend, who wanted to know why my writing has “gone from blood and guts and dead things to love, love, love, and sexy things.” He is not complaining about the change. He has been reading my words since before I shared them with anyone else, from when they were wee scribblings on the margins of schoolwork… He’s just surprised that in a time of much turmoil, I’ve “chosen to go freaky sweet.”

He’s not the only one asking. In the last couple of weeks, some of you have messaged me with similar inquiries: “Your writing’s so sexual lately. What’s going on?” And, “I wish I was getting some of what you’re getting. All I do is watch the news and scream bloody murder. Share, dammit!” And my favorite, “Why aren’t you writing about dismembering things? Dismemberment feels adequate. You haven’t gone romantic? Don’t scare me.”

My answer to these questions is short: I’m a child of balance, a soul who believes that what we feed grows. Right now, I believe we must feed what makes us feel good.

You see, my Wicked Luvs, I delight in writing that is passionate, that heats up the blood, that makes muscle want to move bone, writing that digs deep, deep, deep… and makes the mind feel things (or, at least, that’s my intention *cough*). Tales that are sexy, dark, and bloody have always been my favorite to write and read. They touch all the right spots in my brain. Writing them into the world makes my darkness deliciously bright. I love it.

But…

…right now, the world is a raging mess—people are drowning in the results of climate change, nations are being led by dangerous idiots, groups are feeding monsters we hoped dead, people around the world (and the Web) are dismembering each other’s hopes.

But (thank goodness)…

…there are also people trying to spread pretty spells, individuals trying to feed emotions that relax the body, that nudge the brain to release serotonin, oxytocin… and other happy hormones that conjure up smiles… even, if for just a bit.

I can’t go to the streets and rally against injustice and bigotry. I can’t donate millions to help those who need it most (I’ve done my wee monetary bit, but it’s not enough). There is so much I can’t do. But I can write of happy, happy, happy love in lust. And share it.

I will spell lusty words, let them feed on what burns in my flesh and bones, infuse them with love (the way I know it), and then send them into the world.  As I said to my dearest Rommy, on a post she shared on Facebook (about a man whose beliefs should make most people a bit sick), “when the world starts stinking this much, we must art ourselves some potpourri… if we can.” And I can. So, I will write sex… in love.