periwinkle perplexities

cuddling with the clouds

pondering if the sky always matches the lavender landscape

does this dawn define the divine?

the earth, the radiance.

if you listen to the heartbeat of the wind

she might let you wander here

;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

swallowing sleep

the  debonair nightingale sings to the solemn shadow

Pulsating rapidly, her heart was ablaze but she breathes in the tundra tonight.

"Nothing's quite okay. But I'm here"

Unable to decide what song sounds sweet. She lingers in the water waiting for the burn to subside.

Cleansing the conscious, caressing the callous mind.

Fingering with fidelity, she fancies a frivolous flute to distract the sober sonnet she visualizes.

--

lies. lies lies

beautiful bouquets of those fibs half truths

luscious fabricated bullshit.

unadulterated desire is left omitted.

If the mattress made a movie, a waver of consent would need to be signed.

The sheets keep their secrets close. And laugh at the lying lioness.

No one sees her quite like her pillow. 

She has screamed into it as she is pierced by dicks jamming inside of her.

She has clasped on the cotton so tightly as she gets fucked from the front.

She lays her head there and giggles as she is being tickled by some funny fingers.

She also lays there..alone..and used that pillow as her boyfriend. As her hanker-chef..as her tissue.

As her closest confident. 

-- 

photo poetry. creative collaborative ; Photography by Anthony Machinski Words, Noel Marie

Seductive Sedative of Silence Showers in Spring

drowsy dreamers dance despite the hazy dark 

smoke serenades the scenery as leaves loiter the parking lot.

Cabernet charades caress her chardonnay clouds to clarified confusion.

did the angels miss the lip-less lioness or let them dry and bury the memory like the pet bird . 

She woke up from her day dream and rose in hopes of falling asleep when shes wide awake.

FUCK BEING A SECRET.

She is not Veronica. She just called herself that when she did not want anyone to know her real name. Her real name did not feel to fit her although she used it as an excuse whenever someone found her out.

She wanted to be a vixen. She wanted to be a puma. A cat that preyed in the dark mysterious alleys and hid in trees. But she was not a dark feline at all. She was a lioness that illuminated rays of sunshine when she walked even alone. But she rather be called something else. She wanted she yearned for the danger that seemed to be attracted to her. The good the truth frightened her quivering body. Her bones ached for solitude and serenity. Her naivity navigated her to sexual encounters that compiled into nothingness. They only were good stories to tell. But that is the thing thats all it was stories. The truth is she is simple. She is not original. Someone already has the name Veronica and someone else really is a vixen that she thought only she could possess.

Her story of who she is suppose to be is fading away like a cloud that passed by as fast as a semi truck drives fast off into the dark highway.

What story is she suppose to tell ? What is she suppose to feel. Shoulda Woulda Coulda.

Fuck it. Things are about to get real weird.

meow