eat my heart

He got into her Turkish tudor foolish fuel efficient machine, slamming her erotic door creating aftershocks in Sichuan and kissed her hard love.

“Wow,” she said, “that was delicious. Tell me more.  I feel insecure and despise all my devious intentions.”

“I am too sad to speak. My verbal actions will tell you a story. I am sad and lonely. I can talk about America and how I lost my chance to be rich and famous. I played college baseball and the coach never let me hit. I sat on the bench getting splinters in my ass. I was always treated with disrespect. I will reap what I sow. I can tell you about people who will cheat you.”

“What kind of story?”

“Drive around. I will concoct a magical musty mysterious tale of woe, conquest and self pity.”

She shifted out of park. Her thin hands gripped life’s wheel.

She remembered wild sex with the tall absent minded angry teacher, speaking of sex, death and Indian food fool foreign language hands, lips, smells, tastes, aromas, a throbbing purple snake and confused groping. She couldn’t sleep, let alone dream, remembering it all. 

“I am a man eater. You are a man. A real man. I will eat your heart. This is our custom. We eat the heart of our lover to give us strength. In exchange, I will give you something to remember me by and by.”

“What happens after you eat my heart?”

temporary

My sister put me to work with a niece washing clothes. In reality I am a happy slave. I have my sister, niece, food and a safe place to sleep. I make some money. An Australian girl gave me a scooter. I dress nice.

My sister started selling massage service. If I meet a good man, which is rare, like Thorny, I let him touch me because I trust he’ll take care of me. 

I need help. 

My job has no emotional connection. I have the power to say NO. I have a 5th degree black belt. I’ve killed more men with silence than you can imagine. I tell aggressive idiots they can get laid somewhere else. Go find a beer girl. Flash your cash honey.

I do all the washing, ironing, and massages. My sister pockets the money. I make small tips. She sits around admiring herself in mirrors, playing with her 2-year old daughter. Talking rubbish on her cell.

I am a voiceless voice of quiet resignation. 

Shhh. I have a new secret short term lover while Thorny is home in OZ. I am easy going with a willingness to share honest emotional connections. 

No commitment is a temporary abstraction. 

Clay exchange

Na. They met in her village on the outskirts of town down a lost long red dust road.

It’s a miracle not to save anyone. Not to be a rich foreigner in her dead hopeful eyes, who will marry, save, rescue, support and maintain an 18-year old Lolita nymphet.

A brief transitory relationship. Money and time. Passion with the mature knowledge of a young waif’s dreams of a boy, a man, a local seismographic approval allowed by parents. Is her father alive? Men and women tongue desire.

Her form, angular face, soft skin, touch yes she is experienced in the act of love, this cannot be denied, her movements, her sense of touch tactile indicates practice perhaps a moneyed man. Local boys in the dark.

Her beauty and technique allowing her new potentials, not so much about her pleasure as taking care of business in a soft slow way before rushing from bed to douche. Dressing quickly, shyness wraps its arms enveloping her. Down a lost long red dust road.

Inside light with slow fingers and long thin ivory nails they turned clay into pots. Spinning circles danced, turning on a Wheel of Time. They finished throwing them, used them for tribal ceremonies and smashed clay pots to earth.

Clay exploded into air creating volcanic ash coating everything in a fine dust. 

secret

Shhh. I have a new secret short term lover while Thorny is home in OZ.

I am easy going with a willingness to share honest emotional connections. 

No commitment is a temporary abstraction. My passion is immediate truth in my brown eyes. My eyes are complete sensory awareness. I see voices.

I am a voiceless one, quivering lips and tenacious touch with my secret lover. I am a tiger trusting the darkness of respect where my sexual joy is shy and mutual. I dance a tactile tenderness in a silent breath. 

My unfinished symphony lives with visual touch, holding his small kiss along my spine. I do this because I love it. It is my destiny. A wild swan feels air lifting its wings. A flower opens its petals to sun, warming my heart-mind. It is my fate. 

My tender lover comes to me in the heat of the day. I welcome him with my eyes, gesturing a finger on lips, shh. He is kind. My passion is deep and strong. My languages speak eyes, smiles, hands.

Gestures create us in space. 

  

Yak mouth

Namaste,

Hey Hominid, how's it going?

It's a fucking jungle out there. Predators. Yakking fools.

Idiots with a larynx. 

They grunt. They grimace. They fight. They steal. They kill. They kill, question.

Yeah it's eat or be eaten. Law of the jungle.

Short fast and deadly.

Do they breed work and get slaughtered, question. 

Yeah ha. Ha ha. Laughter saves the day. Where's the tool fool, question.

Over there. (points toward the jungle) Sex. (rubs body parts)

Ugh. Whoopee. Coitus interrupted.

Show me your tool. Fool.

Shit puke thunder and lightning.

Light my fire.

Erectus said to Neanderthal, Give me your tired homeless cave painters. Your electronic mice.

Let's get the hello out of hear.

Metta.