Scarlet~

I glanced at my color-stained hand as I take a drag from the cigarette. I looked at you, blissfully conked off. Why are you men like that? We were sharing such a beautiful and intimate moment minutes before. You were oozing testosterone and now… snoring softly, so peaceful as if the storm had not raged at all. Such a contrast, why can’t you linger and relish such a passionate moment where there’s nothing between us but a feeling innate.

You had taken my hand and had dipped it in the colors and started to sing softly in my ears – “Something got a hold of my heart” as we tried to make sense out of nonsense, something out of nothing on the blank canvas as you sang – “Changing the grey, changing the blue…scarlet for me and scarlet for you”, and you kissed my neck slowly and surely… “dragging my soul to a beautiful land.”

Now, as the smoke curled up, I glanced at all the portraits of me which you have painted, capturing more than the eyes can see, infusing more life than there actually is… a beauty which you see and salvage, making me more ethereal.

I had asked you – “How do you do you do it?” And you sang (which by now I had understood was a way of expressing your feelings) “When you love a woman, you feel it inside her.” Surprised, I turned to face you and asked teasingly – “So, do you love me?” Smiling you turned away humming – “I don’t know how you do it, making love out of nothing at all.”

You don’t say, you don’t share yet there is a spark which I can feel – “Making me smile, making me frown.”

Now, lying beside you, I watch you sleep; savoring you, savoring the moment as if the time stood still for us.

All we have is now. I snuggle beside you and remember the song once you sang for me – “The room at the top of the stairs, And I know a woman who meets me there, She takes my hand and gently leads me…we find love waiting there.”

All I can feel is the warmth spreading over me as you take me in your arms.

©Janaki Nagaraj

Janaki’s Site

Embodiment of Prometheus~

All creatures share earth, water, and air; but fire was a gift to humans alone. Smoking cigarettes is as intimate as we can become with fire without immediate excruciation. Every smoker is an embodiment of Prometheus, stealing fire from the gods and bringing it on back home. We smoke to capture the power of the sun, to pacify Hell, to identify with the primordial spark, to feed on the arrow of the volcano. It is not the tobacco we are after, it is the fire. When we smoke we are performing a version of the fire dance, a ritual as ancient as lightning. Our ancestors passed the peace pipe and painted their bodies before the hunt, the battle, the burial. We continue honoring the sacrifice of Prometheus and honor our ancestors each time we hold that flame…the spark of life, of energy, of that which separates us from the lower animals and makes us human. Human and yet….always retaining our fascination with the flame.

©Willow
Willow’s Site

Finger Painting 101~

Oh I saw you first.
Sitting there, a sidewalk café, under a beautiful blue sky, delicately sipping your coffee.
You looking anxious or excited, it was hard to tell as your eyes revealed nothing behind those sunglasses.
I knew that I needed to paint you. Completely.

There were awkward moments during our conversation; me stuttering as I explained the whole
‘artist thing’, you distracted, but interested too. My final ‘well’ hanging in the air between us. Did everything slow down around me, or was my focus solely on your lips, as you gently licked your tongue across them.
Me like an expectant child waiting for that birthday present, that was promised but never delivered.
Removing your glasses, you saw right through me, pierced me, not stopping for me to catch my breath as your nod of acceptance, sent shivers through my body, aching now in anticipation. Visual rewind, as I was 18 again, staring into those beautiful brown eyes, stomach churning, wanting it so badly, the expectation and anticipation matched only by your fucking hotness, as you delivered me into a place of Ecstasy and Fulfillment.

Back inside my loft, you stepped out of the shadows and sat down on that fur, the whiteness contrasting with your unblemished skin, you exuded a radiance that illuminated every space, like never before. Your beauty filled me, touched me, consumed me, as I filed away each moment, forever deep inside me.
I was majestic too. My nimble fingers plunging into the wetness of my pallet, each one conducting, dictating and orchestrating. Delicate strokes, working to soften the hardness beneath, replaced by feverish movements, as the canvas before me came alive with you. With each stroke you seemed to reach out to me, touch me and pull me closer,your intimate whispers urging me not to stop. My senses heightened as you stared at me, eyes locked, I wanted it forever, yet the moment was brief yet delicious.

When it was over, the need for a cigarette was overwhelming, something I could not resist, to be honest, didn’t want to resist. I was still wet, clothes clinging to my body, a moment I wanted to cherish and devour some more, as each drag enlightened me a little more.
I would never see you again. Something we both knew and accepted, no complications, no wrong numbers or bad email addresses.
The water cascaded over my body, giving me time to contemplate. To replay you as I shut my eyes , recalling each precious moment, each stroke upon that canvas, each breath we shared. Rivulets taking control now, each droplet seemed to be separate, cleansing a chosen pore on my skin, still tingling as your fragrance and sweat is expunged, without mercy or remorse, making me ready for tomorrow.

©Neil Chatterton

Neil’s Site

Boarded Up~

She crouched naked and shivering on an old white rug in the corner, rocking to and fro with her knees pressed tight to her chin, trying to hold onto what was left of her dignity. In a room that was crumbling and mostly forgotten, the window boarded up with cardboard and duct tape.

“Is this going to hurt?”

The man stood at the doorway. His skin was sallow in the dim light. He dropped his toolbox and stared at the floor in front of her feet.

“Yes. A little.”

“And then what?”

He walked over to the window and pulled back a strip of tape, bending back the cardboard to take a look outside. He lifted his binoculars. Through the swirling dust he made out an empty chicken coop. A rusty tractor carcass. Out past the yard stretched fields of parched grass and the spiny silhouettes of dead trees. The sky was bloated, streaming with a grey catarrh. The lack of visibility was making him uneasy. He needed to get away from there. He returned to his toolbox and set to work on her. He laid out the paints and used the tattoo gun first, covering her arms and shoulders with tribal symbols. Her hair he washed in old car grease and oil, matting the ends and winding them around in dreadlocks.

©Slim

Slim’s Facebook

Three Mudras~

1
Isis, become divine, unwinds her turban,
turns at the waist, a slight twist one might miss
in a lesser soul, and placing a hand
to each side of the vulture crown, lifts
a new mind above her opened eyes.

2
For the rain-wet door handle,
for the red squeaking chair arm,
for laced shoes and gloves and children,
for calculators and smoky chocolate wrappers,
there is a phantom limb in repose,
twitching in my eye, unreachable.

3
I have had to carry the memories so far
they are drummed into me, into skin,

up and down my spine like low voltage yoga.
I’m a thumb drive for the sky,

the world’s marimba tuned to the past.
Play me like this.

©Edward Harsen

Edward’s Site