A Black Photograph

Imagelessness

I’m dreaming again,
an imageless dream,
a black photograph.

A stir in the darkness
pleases this moonchild,
this waterbaby.

My night is clear and light,
as bright to me as day,
calling to me.

Darkness toys with my spirit,
a sensual game,
my distraction.

My dream, being taken,
loved by the night,
my day, my moon.

I swim in the pool of life,
dreams obsessed with lust,
my desire.

Darkness yearns to include me,
to please me, to love me,
to make three.

Sleep calls me,
come out to play,
so I must go.

My nightdress is lonely
on its hook tonight.
I’m in the mood.


The Annethology is complete …

woodnymph

… I think. I just finished editing the 18 short stories that will make up The Veil of Sheera and other Tales. If you are one of my regular readers, I’m looking for one person to beta it. I’ve had comments on the individual stories, but not on the collection as a whole. Let me know if you are interested in a comment below.

I’m also looking for cover art. (I can’t use the pic above, sadly.) If you are interest in contributing a photo or drawing, preferably of Sheera in a chair under her veil (You can read the story on this site.), send me some ideas.


Iconography

AtThatVeryMoment

I wanted to be her.

I wanted to be twenty years younger, and I wanted to have what she had. Dying my hair blond (or whatever her latest color was) was the easy part, and I was fortunate to look vaguely like her … well, I didn’t quite have her breasts, and I was a couple of inches taller than she was. Implants were out of the question, but a little padding was easily obtained and served just as well … at least, until somebody tried to remove my dress.

That little black dress! She wore it on television – she looked fabulous in it. It looked very tiny on me, or maybe it felt tiny on me, like it was barely there – bare being the operative word.

I can sing, too. Unfortunately, I’m hopelessly an alto. I could never hit those high notes. I won’t be a tribute singer. Besides, I’m really much better playing my French Horn. That’s not to say I couldn’t sing, but that wouldn’t be my strength. Singing won’t get me where she is.

I sent her an email a few weeks ago. I didn’t hear anything back – wasn’t expecting to. She probably doesn’t tweet her tweets or post on her Facebook account. Some lackey probably does that for her. I don’t know why I did it. When it comes to her, I just lose all sense of reality.

I heard she was coming to town – a night that I wasn’t playing a gig myself. I could go, but I would look a little strange on my own – not quite a grandmother to the rest of her audience, but not far off. Some of my contemporaries are grandmothers. That’s something I’ll never be. No children, no husband, not even an ex- or two. She has an ex- already – and children. She will be a grandmother by the time she is my age. I was pregnant once, but nothing came of it. Yes, I’ve had a steady stream of ex-boyfriends, few of whom I’m still in contact with. That’s me; a breakup is irreparable. My ex-boyfriends are off limits, bad blood. I once tried to stay in touch, but that only strung him along. He didn’t want to break up, but I knew it was going nowhere. The second breakup was worse – for both of us. I can’t stand to be near him now – as much as I can’t stand to be apart from him.

I digress …

Well … maybe I’m not done digressing. I’ve had more boyfriends than she’s had. She’ll divorce hubby number two, and there will be a custody battle – and it will cost her a fortune – a fortune for me, pennies for her. I’ve probably slept with more men than she has, but I can’t know how many she’s slept with in her rise to the top. I do have more years of experience, though – more chances for discards. I can’t seem to stay with anyone for more than 18 months or so – then I have about 6 months off before I hit the fray again.

Ever since she hit the big time, I’ve followed her every move, in spite of the fact I wasn’t that fond of her first album. It was too poppy-country for me; more suitable for teenage girls just hitting puberty. She was little more than that herself at the time. There was just something about her that obsessed me – yes, I was obsessed with her even before I liked her music. It made me question my sexuality – for a few minutes, anyway. I’m definitely sapiosexual – that’s being attracted to smart people. I just heard the term used on the radio, and thought it described me up to a certain point. I’m attracted to smart people, especially if they are male. She’s definitely not that smart, so it doesn’t explain my instant obsession.

When her second album of sensually throbbing electronica was released, I was hooked. I heard the first single, Take Me Down (at the Old Ball Game), from it on American Idol with my beau of the time, and it instigated the most incredible night of sex of my life. I still get horny whenever I hear it.

Her third album debuted with short black hair and that little black dress. It was one of those unplugged albums, paring back everything to its rawest purest form (including her clothing). I had to have that dress, and I cut and dyed my hair. It wasn’t long before someone was removing what little there was of that dress and ravishing me. It’s still my lucky dress, even after I followed my obsession back to being blond. (I’m really a redhead – or probably a greyhead, if truth be told.)

My favorite album, her fourth, was universally panned. She returned to that sensual electonica that I so loved on her second album. I played it at least 3 times a day for months. I loved the beat, her cheeky lyrics, and the video to Love Me (with Bloodshot Eyes) was hypnotic. I used to watch it on repeat when I went to bed (alone) at night.

Her latest album is probably my least favorite, but it has put her back on the top of the charts. It’s a mix of the soupy country ballads that made her a star in the first place, mixed with a plethora of bubbly pop that’s almost palatable. Because it was her, I still bought it. There was one song that was never released as a single that made it worth my dime, Riding Bareback. The juxtaposition with the unplugged bonus track (Commando) from her second album, gave it additional resonance.

You’ve probably noticed that I have avoided mentioning her name, but you all know who it is. (You must!) Unfortunately, a restraining order prohibits me from naming her in my online posts.

Of course, there was one other attraction to the newest album – the artwork: short red hair, red dress. Hence, I’m back to my natural color, and wearing that minimalist red dress turns heads when I take it out for a spin in public. I usually just keep it for myself at home in the evenings, so I don’t have to worry how much of me I’m showing off. (It also keeps me from getting arrested for solicitation, which is definitely not what I’m doing!)

What do you think? Should I wear it to her concert? Or should I look retro in the little black dress? You didn’t think I was serious when I suggested I wouldn’t go? I wouldn’t miss it, even if I have to wear a wig and dark glasses.

Ooh, how time flies. Tickets go on sale in a few minutes.

That’ll be me in the front row.


Hora slumbers

[1] The wise man fears as Hora
slumbers behind the mirror.
Her vengeance is such
that even Hahn sleeps
with one eye open.

From The Book of Cyrus, The Iliot, ch. 1, verse 1


Don’t explain

IMG_0981

Don’t explain, I don’t want to know.
close the door when you go.

It was your transgression that killed love
I wasn’t perfect, but you weren’t close.

Don’t explain, I don’t want to hear.
She was my friend, wasn’t that clear?

Our trust is a torn curtain, gone,
A broken thread can’t be rewoven.

Don’t explain, I don’t want you here.
I can’t stand having you near

You hardly knew her, or so you said,
Until I found her in our bed.

Don’t explain, I don’t want to know.
close the door when you go.


You never forget how to ride

Banana and Cherry by niguin (hide)

For just one dollar, you may ride our fastest yellow bullet train.  Yes, we invite you to be a passenger on our pink submarine.  Ooh, damn, my knickers are in a twist, all twisted up, left under the bed, lost and dusty, as I watch the funeral donkey pass, widow in black, soul in white.  Or is that a blackened soul and a passing white ghost – a white witch under Dorothy’s bedroom.  Uncle Elmer left me with a dollar in my pocket, just in case.  Take her back to the North for a dollar, save her from Dot’s wrath, give her Dot’s rash, run time backwards – feet curled up in stripey stockings.  Mine under the bed with my knickers, discarded after my last bike ride; he ruined them again. He ruined it, me, forever and ever, one nation … am I allowed to say that?  What does Congress say, the right wing red necks banning my ruby slippers, grounding my balloon flights with that sham of a wizard.  I’d rather fly with the monkeys, fly to the moon, to the stars, as the gold sun declines on the autumn horizon.  Soul and body fresh in the failing light and clear sky, dancing to the funeral march.  Laughing at the silly witch who got mixed up with her stripey twin, as our black cousin cackles in her black leather knickers, whip, and flaming broom.  I led the cortege through the creaky gate, naked as the day I was born – no, created – no human could bear me, especially when I haven’t taken my medication, today’s white pills sold for a dollar, I’ve doubled my money, so I can buy a blue, pink and white bomb pop, and drop it on Dorothy’s crushed house, riding my bike backwards, we go both ways, he said I’m ambidextrous, foreplay, afterplay, time in two directions, making the corn taller as it wilts.  Green stalks from green shoots, bang!, killed the white witch before Dot’s house landed on her, tied her up in the coffin – witches don’t die – the black witch cackles – watch witchy dig herself out of this one, buried in the cornfield on the horizon.  Make her walk home in her dirty white dress hiding her tail between her legs, her mother will scold her as stripey witch jumps up and down with glee and blacky strokes her monkey.  I’m curled up in bed with my bike, having forgotten about my knickers and socks, playing submarine – up periscope!


Mine removed

Image

I knew he would come,
our place since the beginning of time,
our time.

This is our watery garden,
our Eden without that damned tree,
pure and untouched.

He knows not why he is drawn,
pure as the driven snow,
in his dream.

When he last visited,
it was my dream,
his beautiful flesh,
my paradigm.

My spirit sat on this log,
here since ancient times,
but he couldn’t see me then,
not like now.

He can’t help noticing a woman,
naked,
the most beautiful he has ever seen,
as we were created for each other.

Forever I wait for him in the mountain tarn,
fed by a waterfall, borne of a force,
an underground river
bursting from a cliff face.

This lake is our love,
still and pure,
with its source from a higher power.

I will always love him because
I remember.
Everything.

He forgets until he sees me,
wonders at his newfound love,
One that he understands not.

Natural, yet he is Earthbound.
I will teach him again,
but when he awakens,
he will marvel at his dream.

He’s had one like it before,
I know because I know his thoughts.
They are mine, removed.


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