Potatophile

by Jessica Shimerdla



My fingers crawl over your tan, weathered skin...

You remain so unresponsive to my touch...unaffected...unfeeling...

You look away...utterly unforgiving.

Your silence leaves me in suspense.







Please look at me.

Please say something.





Oh well...maybe you just DON’T DESERVE ME

...maybe YOU’RE not good enough

...maybe I’ll just FIND SOMEONE NEW.





but why fool myself?



I AM AN ABOMINATION.

I am FOREVER COMPLETELY DEVOTED to you, my love...

...your tan skin feels so smooth...

...your tan, weathered skin...

DANCE WITH ME


You tempt me.
In my waking reality I seek solace
in the gentle enchantment of your laugh.
Your words surround me with a sweet serenade of seduction.

Your heart beats a song,
bringing my soul to life with its music.
I long to spend every timeless moment
engulfed in the wave of passion
which floods through me
when you smile.

Your eyes trace the curve of my jaw, the rounded lines of my shoulder, the hollow of my neck.
I am entranced,
mesmerized,
captivated as I am lost in their depth;
an endless desire to possess
fueled by the lingering touch of your fingers on my skin.

I yearn to surrender my heart and body
to this tireless sensation,
to the harmony and bliss
of this infatuation.

falling towards center...some glimmering gossamer strand leading out of the
web of monotony, of apathy. pushing thru habitual reflexes, causing that
curling motion, that mimicing of potato bugs...a folding in of the
self...seeking warmth, seeking shelter, seeking sight: following by braille
this gossamer strand tied to the earth.

purpose?
is there some greater purpose than this? does there exist some cosmic slate
in the great office of the gods, a slate of purpose?

i wake, feel the cool folds of the dream dissipate as my feet touch
floor...dust stirring, sending tingles to toes...i marvel at the chill, at
the miracle that i rise from the void bearing flesh...flesh that feels.

i tell myself there is a method to this seeming madness of monotony. i
repeat resolutely that this method has form, has weight, has meter...that
this method has purpose that can be molded, has matter.

feet propelling forward...
into routine, folowing a revolution as ancient as soil: that i must wake,
must be, that i must do and then return each night is a mystery.

and yet somehow, the fragile faith that again finds a pattern in the
patterns of things. a pattern that is mine and mine alone. my gossamer
web, my cloud, my dreamscape.

each time that siren melody comes calling, i follow. listening
distractedly, as if possessed...climbing over precipice, dangling over
cavern, digging under decay...emerging once again holding nothing. blind.

the waking non-entity that is me, alone...with wispy fragments of siren
calls to guide me...to lead me through the monotony and towards center...to
push past center and into transmutation...to guide past alchemy and into
ether...and finally back into flesh, all before nightfall.

before the shades fall once more, i learn to open as a flower does to sun.
i learn that this flesh needs moisture,needs nourishment, needs sun,

needs love...

and my divided self is somehow seared back into one...secure in the
smallness of the me that is flesh; confident in the me that is vast, that is
spirit.

so you want to play this game with me?
ok. i’ll even let you win.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


i want to inject you
into my veins
let you pulse through my blood
i want you that far
beneath my skin
i want to rip open
just to bleed you out
and when i heal
i know you will be my scar

Alarm


Sometimes,
when I’m sleeping in,
you are the snooze button on my alarm.
And then you are my arm
which reaches down
to pull the covers back up.
You are the blanket
wrapped around
and warming me,
you are the pillow nestled
underneath my head.

But mostly
you are the dream
to which I run
whenever I can,
you fill my head
all of the time
when I’m asleep,
when I’m awake.
And I don’t want it to end.

I will lay here dreaming
until my alarm starts buzzing again.

This post was deleted by Aspen

Untitled
by: Sherry


I
Stumbled upon him
Curiously allowing the fall
Impact
Hitting with suffocating deep needing want
His hands are firmly locked around my throat
Inviting ambiguous frustration in this empty decaying hole
Fill er’ up please, don’t mind the rust
Comforting dirtied - bloodied ego with candied hearts, soft feathers whispering
Oh my, doesn’t the Lilac smell delicious?
Investigating the unknown without linear bounds
Silly stupid child, you know better, don’t you?
Dizzy with lustful excitement annoyingly dancing and stomping on this third eye
Am I fucking blind?
Waves pounding the over-worked red walls with milky eruptions
Drippy mess making
Thick slug marks on soiled carpets
I’m sorry, please allow me to scrub my stains
I need to bleed
Wound licking with a salty tongue, you’re too kind, how can I thank you?
No
Plummeting back to reality, open the curtain into my faded carnival of June 14th, 1945
I need to go home

counting faster - to make up for lost time.
that left over silence splitting me between
my lungs.
i feel sort of so lost since we started going so fast.
then (once, twice), you skipped a beat,
hammering the heel of your hand:
a hart beat against the hard stone wall.
i slow my intake, count the breaths it takes me to answer.
counting faster
now that we lost so much of ourselves
to time.

"FUEL"

So I set out to be,
to see
whatever might...
DESPITE
that nearly everywhere
I glanced
I glimpsed
the same lacklustre spirits
and limp-wristed minds
jabbering their hollow jibberishes,
babbling on incessantly
in their uncommited,
lukewarm
languages...

retreating,
each in his own turn
toward their respective,
madly-lit corners
and glorious states of oblivion...

So I set out to be,
to see
whatever might....

that I would not be
tallied
among their ranks,
sweating out the obligatory
gutterfulls of piss,

cooling themselves
beneath fans that kept pace
with their patterned
existences...
predictable,
terrifying
and untrue.


(so I set out to be....and so have you.)

Thanks Spen

the crush started after i realized i couldn't be you; the best i could hope for was to be with you. at first, your fingers felt like razers, but gradually i relaxed and accepted your generosity. i let you care about me and i felt sad. and now i'm in your room, looking like my wings are bent and my feathers are drying and falling off. you're every love song ever written. beneath the stain of time, the feeling disappears. (is there a place between obsession and apathy?) and i wonder, if i let go, how far will i fall? if i can't have you, at least i'd have my misery. you did it to seperate me from the crowd yet still make me part of the whole scene. after all, you'll only give me what i'm taking.

I did it.
Said good-bye with conviction
Said good-bye with tears in my eyes
Said good-bye because you annoyed me to the point of violence
I did it.

Two weeks pass.
I think of you. You contact me
You miss me. I miss you
Thoughts of rolling in sheets
Thoughts of the power play
Thoughts of passion
Needing over takes rational

It’s really over
I did it.
Good-bye

walking, dancing, maybe a two-step?
impressive tango, my friend
I'll play
I can dance
walking, stomping, running
I find it hard to keep time
your mental state isn't anchored
are we still dancing?
did you excuse yourself to the restroom?
nice, now we're playing chess
is that your knight? or my horseman?
I can keep up, try me
walking, confusion, tripping
fuck it, you just kinged me

Lingo et en o postuma
Embrachico.

Fish gotta
Fly
Birds gotta sea/
Seed and bewildered am I.