Tag Archives: imagination

Tactile Surreality.

Passing gradients and swirl dream dyes.

bumps, crackle, white-red sparks
chest expanding lifts,
tippity-top of the brain
rolling eyes.

oxygen widening the tubes
seeping into nubs
tinkling jerks and winces
clench

Smooth rippling tides by gentle lilies.

Self obsession a cure
for redirection
and healthy minds
healthy hearts
healthy lives.

Ease, a belief of connected souls.

snap, crunch, crackle, brittle
seeping, crystals, thick
soft, compact, tough
tender, hurried, curious.

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Short story – rainy thoughts

Sitting on her cabinet, vying for space between the books, the toys, the mirror makeup graduation certificate documents; wind harassing the trees below. 

There are so many cars driving by at 1am, more than 7 to 10 people passing her by at 1 in the morning. Where are they all going, what were they doing this time of the night? It’s Tuesday night, shouldn’t everyone be in bed, preparing for the next work day? But she wasn’t in bed herself. 

She sent out her soul to below, to work the corner and the streets. To lift her shirt just far enough to ignite imagination without giving away her goods. She sent out her projected imagination (or was it her true identity?) to the scummy, filthy side of this clean and green city. The one where now 10-15 people were still awake and driving by, up to no good, getting involved with one another, exposing each others dirty little  (11-15) secret parts and shameful

The door swings open. With her window open, a vacuum effect was created, forcing her door to let out the emptiness from within her blue walls. She hopped off and rushed to shut the door before her parents woke, then trudged back to close the window before climbing back into bed.

Where was she? (12-17 by now) shameful hidden treasures, that only a wedded couple should be allowed access to. Not even you can get access to your own treasure trove, your pleasure is a dirty thing and should only happen by accident while in the middle of its true baby making goals.

She sent out her soul to the red light district, amidst the many dirty streets and dirty old men (some young but old in their extensive knowledge, how could a young man know so much without the experience that ought to come with age). Fishnet stockings, red cheeks, long fake eyelashes and puckered lips. Wink and smirk, trail those fingers. That’s how you get the thought of dirty deeds in their filthy minds the act of suggestion.

She pulled her soul out of the reaches the moment she sensed someone approaching. Too soon, she wasn’t ready, she was only playing at the idea. She wasn’t a slut, no, she’s still a good girl at heart. The pure pious one who was taught to be Christ’s bride and never to touch her secret area. She was only messing around with thoughts, thoughts that are not real and will not, can not be real. They do not exist in solid forms, only corporeal and therefore not a real sin. She’s not actually dirty.

Still she hears the grating of tires and brakes against wet gravel and she dreams of satin and silk, of rough leather scents and (here comes the hard splashes of rain against her window) and of chains and ropes and she wishes she were free from the shackles of her purity.

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