Just a few words to clean spite off my back.

All of the sudden nothing made sense anymore... The cellphone, the apps, instagram, the gratuituous, ever going shower of words and images.

I trade everything in, for music and music only.

I do shit my way, and my way only.

The harder you push, the more it hurts, so just sit back and watch the show. It'll all happen on it's own, I promise.

It'll all come down on it's own, I promise.

Why don't people know this? Why do they do it the hard way? They like it the hard way?

Why isn't everyone taking their time? Why is everyone giving into each other's constant pushing? Why does she allow the needle in her spine? Why does she smile through the torture and call it beauty?

Music is life, and life is music.

Can you hear it, down there? Little me, can you hear it?

Down came a black out, so I guess you can.

Belly Buttons

She has a large pregnant belly. Lately, she has been feeling alone. After all, she is the one carrying the weight.

But she doesn't know her husband has been watching; he is always paying attention. He's been observant of her movements becoming slower and slower, of her words becoming scarce, of her eyes becoming deeper.

She can barely bend now, she can hardly walk, she has done so little for herself lately... So he watches her sleep, as if they just begun sharing bed, as if he met her with her belly and fell in love with her and her belly, as if her belly was the first point of attraction he set eyes on.

Her night gown had rose above her belly button, revealing her pink panties half hidden betwixt her thighs. Her right hand covered her large breasts and neck as she heaved sigh after heavy sigh. Her husband begun caressing her belly, and slowly removed her arm. She woke slightly, but her head was half in dreams yet.

He revealed her breast and sucked on it for a while, and felt his wife arousing quickly. Then, with his hand, he went between her legs.

He touched her till she woke, he touched her till she went moist, he touched her till her lips parted and she let him in. He kissed her till she sighed, she sighed until he did, she came onto his fingers and he onto her thigh.

It had been so long since she had done something for herself...

By Our Selves

There is a picture on my desktop of a woman sitting on a chair, she is wearing trousers, smoking a cigarette. She is wearing no blouse. Her small breasts are free of restraint and she wears them proudly.

Another picture I have is of a grown man sucking on a woman's nipple.

I look at these images and wonder how many of us, female humans, are proud of our breasts. Their shape, size, girth, how they droop or perk, how they feel when we touch them, how aroused we feel at their sight.

I wonder how many of us would walk around our very own houses without a top on, and feel it to be natural.

Me, I would love to be naked all the time. I'd love to wear clothes only when leaving the house, and with no underwear at that. I'd love to come home to my partner, leave my outer outfit on the chair and continue my day wearing only my skin. I'd love to feel his skin against mine, all of it, whenever we hug.

What an excentric world, this one, where we hide from our very selves.

Recurrence

I had a dream, I've been having it for many years now, in which a woman is making love to me, or I am making love to her.

She is always the same woman, Her hair is black, her complexion is thin and delicate. She's fearless. Her face may vary, sometimes she looks like a girl, sometimes like a fragile woman, sometimes like a lioness. Sometimes she makes love to me, sometimes I make love to her.

Every time it gets better. Every time I let her in further into my soul, I care less about her seeing the pleasure I experience from her touch, or I care less that she will be off put by the way I touch her. I've learned she likes it, too.

The right kiss in the right place.
The right pace of movements...

This time we were at a cozy hotel by the beach. Our friends would never suspect our actions, we were totally free.

Edge

The best part comes when you are standing, and I am sitting
On the edge of the bed.

Your belt buckle under my fingertips.
Your belly fuzz against my cheek.

There is where I love to kiss.
There is where I love to linger.

Loving Bodies

There's nothing I can do about the way others see of me, what they understand of me, what they drink in from my presence.

But I can do that for myself. That is under my control.

There's nothing I can do to teach you how I like to be touched, I can only hope you guess it through my body language. I can only hope you care.

It starts with caring, me, myself, about how I am.

Let's not worry about disilusionment. Lets have some hope on feeling what we desire, at least once, before we trascend into the otherworld.

I´m only another human who likes being touched the right way. Often, very often. Like I'm made of feathers, like my skin is silk, like I'm fragile but resilient to the correct amount of strenght.

I can take it. And I'd love to listen to you while I do.

I can only hope you care. I can only hope you dare.

I can only hope I can read how you like it too. I kow you like to be touched as well, and I'd love to touch you.

The Lonely Years

The final decades of the dying century were lonely years.

There were tons of revolutions as well, inside and outside of people’s heads.

Poor things, most of them never knew what hit them.

Or maybe they were the lucky ones.

Those who did know, who saw through all the smoke curtains and the turmoil of disease, they were forced to pact with the devil, the little red devil that lived within themselves.

I see them today, in videos, in pictures, so far away from those days, so far from their atmosphere… and I shiver.

They were the brave ones.

Today is all about exploration, gaining knowledge of things yet unknown, being at the same time aware that the cycle will never end. Everyone knows, it’s ok. We still set out to conquer. But back then, the brave ones who made the pact knew they were already dead; yet they walked and played.

And I love them for it.

D.