little by little
Thursday, October 30, 2003
Blowjob Perspectives
i.
For him,
His nipples feel the static of
A dry, awkward silence
He looks down at her sheepishly
In a moment his 11th finger will
Swell into a rocket
But he has to love her first.
Stumbling into her eyes
He thinks he can feel love for her
Those expanded eyes
Looking upwards imploringly
Expectant of more and
Confident of his potential.
It is this gaze
This child-like gaze
Of respect and affirmation
That always works for him
He grows for her
And she pumps
In
Out
In
Out
In
He loves her. He can love her for now.
ii.
For her,
His cock is her microphone
This setting is her only stage
She is prime, alpha,
Centre of gravity
She sings her muted songs of
Stigma and stereotype
Into that microphone
And watches it shudder
Climaxing into its own crescendo
He doesn’t even matter
Though he thinks he does
He doesn’t matter one bit.
She doesn’t even know his name.
iii.
For me,
I see two lost effigies
Self-sculpted, self-driven
As they clutch desperately onto each other
He is thrusting his hips in and out
Writing his presence into her body
Inking this proof of participation
By emptying his virility
And she
She locks her lips hermetically against his pen
This pen is
Her documentary tool
To remind herself that she sometimes
Existed in the same plane,
The same dimension
As another person.
They cling on reluctantly after he comes
(Unwilling to confront the silence, the void)
As he shivers to his loss of temperature
And she,
Performing the obligatory encore
To an audience of one
Milking him dry
Swallowing her end of a bargain.
(And I watched myself with her)
As a rimy heat stings both of them
In this misplaced intimacy.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
it was my imagination, i swear! the girl's our classic stereotype of a slut, and the man's just any lonely middle-aged man. i wasn't being blown, nor do i have (overt) voyeuristic tendencies, just an exercise on perspectives.
Sunday, October 26, 2003
because i haven't updated in a long time, and isolation inspires.
#Chatroom
here you try to escape being yourself
a new identity awaiting each login:
'who should i be today?'
J_Aniston?
-Nickname is already in use.
JenAniston?
-Nickname is already in use.
JAn|st0n?
-Nickname is already in use.
so many people jostling for the same identity
the recesses of the Internet house more deaths than lives
you try to be a little different,
a pun here, and some numbers parading as l3tt3rs there
but your objective is the same as everyone else-
writing new stories for alternative lives.
lies can only be told through the lips
lips of fingers conspiring with the keyboard
'pretty, model, sex, rich, award-winning'
liars.
everyone surveys each other with skepticism,
bare with the vulnerability of
a charmed identity they mistook for protection.
borrowing courage from anonymity
they offer sex or money
fat girls claiming to be stick-thin
bald men claiming to be Brad Pitts
even truth is compromised, with
200-pounders only talk about their E-cups
some from each sex.
each lie echoes louder and longer
richRichRICHRICH
prettyPrettyPRETTYPRETTY
and hits closer than reality.
like a necessary hell for a tangible heaven.
------------------------------------------------------------ (x-posted on my LJ)
and also because, i got another online stalker on my back. much worse than the one i had in sec 3, this one tries to steal my name and then attempts to convince me that i suffer from schizophrenia. i am the real deal fucker. you can take my name, you can go to my channels, you can pose all you want, but you can't steal my mojojojo. this poem was inspired by you, and dedicated to you, because you're such a loser.
but mostly because i've neglected feyism.blogspot.com, who is living up to it's namesake.
Saturday, October 04, 2003
*grumble grumble* last time when i wanted blogger to remove my old blog they just turned a blind eye and now they got someone else to take it away *grumble grumble* i don't even like the name chris *grumble grumble*
the last time life was so boring was when i was fed through a pinkish-grotesquemo umbilical cord :P and it's not as if i'm studying or whatever.. just playing games and writing forgettable poetry.
