Creating A Novel – Pure Sex

When this artist scribbled down his first 150 words, I found your lips. I could do nothing at all but kiss them. Over and over again I kissed them. Softly
and roughly, tenderly and ferocioulsy, with sweet affection and ferocity, I kissed them.
 
When this artist continued to scribble another 350 words and hit 500 I had found
your hand with your beautiful fingers. I kissed your lips and touched your
fingers to my face, rubbed them on my cheeks, and pressed them upon my chest. 
 
When this artist wrote down the next 1,000 words, I found loving arms to wrap around
myself, and a neck to burry my face into so that I could dream and desire your love
and companionship, guidence, and passion. 
 
When this artist became intoxicated by your lips I found myself drunk with longing, 
and so I reached for pens, and pencils, and markers, and so many writing instuments
to scribbled the next 10,000 words in search of your legs, and back, and ears, and…
 
Oh, my God, this artist is now mad with writing, I am mad with you. Your legs, you 
thighs, oh please hands do not cramp, do not give up on writing these words. 
Your feet, and calves, your silky hair…dammit write, write, write, and kiss, and WRITE! 
 
When this artist hit 50,000 words I found your face, and you smiled at me. Your 
body with all the peices came together to form your whole, and you breathed and came 
to life. I no longer took your fingers to my face, and touched your lips to mine to kiss. 
 
When this artist had finally finshed this novel, you were complete, and came to life, 
and you took your fingers to my cheeks, and pressed them to my chest. You reached
your arms around my body and pulled me close. You put your mouth to mine, pushed 
your body hard against my body, and we layed down on the desk and made love all night.
 
When this artist was saticfied by your every paragraph, soothed by your every sentence, 
warmed with every one of your words, and loved loudly with each and every letter, I woke
up drowsly drunk with you front to back, through and through, and then I knew, I knew deep 
in my soul, with every fiber of my being…
 
That when this artist had finished the last word, I had written well.  
 

Where I Belong

It’s raining now.  
I’ve turn the lights off so I can hear your voice 
as it sings to me in the drops upon the roof 
and against my windows. 
 

I love it when it rains
 

The smell in the air just before it comes down
is nearly intoxicating. You, your fragrence 
does intoxicate me. 
 

Oh listen…now it pours. 
 

I’m curling up now on the couch in the
dark, with your letters in my hand pressed 
my heart, and I feel your words kissing my soul
 

Pour rain, pour.
 

Heaven opens wide tonight, like the opening
of the arteries of the god’s, pouring out all passion
and love, and life. It pours over me tonight.
 

So, My Muse, My Mistress Muse.
 

I will lay here and listen to you in the rain, 
I will lay here with the kisses of your words 
upon my heart. I will lay here in your embrace 
 

Right where I belong. 
 

Because She Asks

It’s just not fair to want you so bad and not have you.
To be so close and not touch. To feel your body so close
And not be able to take you. This is our story love, not theirs.
Who cares what they think, I belong to you and only you.
I know that it is hard, to live, to need, to hunger so deeply
And to hear the world say it is not normal, it is not ok.
You are my Muse, My Mistress Muse.

It is hard to want and and then have circumstance keep us
From each other, it is harder, much harder to be close and
Have her say that we must not love, because she does not
Want it at the moment, she needs to withdraw, even for a
Moment. When the Muse is so needed by the world that she
Does not need the one who loves her most, then what?

I can fight all the shadows. I can wrestle and struggle with
The demons, and for you I would challenge the gods, though
An ant I am to them, but when me Muse asks this great thing
Of me, what then, how can I fight. And in my heart I know
She wants, and longs, and desires. I know she desires to
Give me the words, and that this task is just as pressing on
Her, and if I could rush in and save her I would, but I can’t.

Because it is her that asks.

So it all the more hurts.

I will wait.

I Am Only A Man

I am only a man

And she asks me to blot out the sun

I am only a man

And she asks me to restrain the oceans waves

I am only a man

And she says ” hold back the hurricane”

I am only a man

And she asks me to constrain the tongue of the volcano

This is my love, shining, and crashing and blowing, and consuming

And she asks this impossible thing from me,

I am only a man, but I will do it, though uncomprehendable it my seem

…and because she but asks.

I Won’t Be Without Her

How can one possibly live each day without their Muse?
I find the days long, boring, even flavorless without her.
My nights are all the more dark, when she is not here.
Not the dark that is black, and cool, but the darkness that
That is empty and void and lonely, and thirsty.

The artist in me is only a man with a pen and paper alone
In a room without furniture, without music, without words.
I stand with a pen without ink, paper coated in wax, and a
Vacuum in my brain, constantly sucking at life and creativity…
When she is not with me, whispering in my ear, touching me.

I once met a man who lived near the beach. He told me that
He had died. I told him that he had clearly not died because
We were talking, and breathing, and I put my hand on his
Shoulder and smiled, and we are touching.

He said “When she is gone there is no power in the words,
No life in the breath, and no love in the touch. Though many
Touch me, I can only feel but One. Now she is gone. Do you
See?” I looked out over the waves of the ocean and did not
See my blindness, but now…I see.

Without the Muse, there is no life, no power, no love. There
May be a world fill of people, full of events and happenings,
But there is only One who brings it all to life. She is the Meaning
The Purpose, the Reason, the Why and the How Come. She is
My Muse, My Mistress Muse. And I will not be without her.

This Aroma of You

I smelled you just now walking down the street
Near the coffeehouse we have sat at so many times.
I turned and looked around only to find no one, actually
A lot of No One’s, it is not them I am longing for, not
Them I that I did smell walk past me a moment ago.

Smell has a way of pulling your mind into a movie
Of yesterday. In a single whiff, I see days, and months,
And weeks of loving you. I close my eyes long enough
To capture the essence of your aroma from within my
Nostrils and quickly create images of you in my mind.

An aroma, here as long as breath, breathed on a cold
Window, is all I need to make my heart burn. Your aroma
Is pain, and depression, and at the same time, longing
Yearning, wanting, and an insatiable desire. Your aroma
Is both life and death to me; breaking my heart, making my
Soul full of happiness and joy.

You are not here, on this corner, at this coffeehouse.
The aroma is maybe living on the wind, coming to me
Through your open window while you sleep. Creation
Knowing the pain of this distance, carries your aroma
To my nostrils to both comfort my longing heart and
Crush my needing want.

Never the less. Realizing that you are not here I close
My eyes again, and breathe in as deeply as I can to
Steal every fiber of your essence from this night air
So I can conjure images of you to brand into my brain.
My brain: a store house of beautiful mental portraits of you.

In the stillness of this moment I am comforted in the
Beauty and the pain of right now, because Creation,
Fate, destiny, time, space, or what ever this magic is
It lets me know that distance may separate me, but
I am never ever without you.

So I will just keep breathing you in.

I think I was supposed to die tonight.

I think I was supposed to die tonight.

Last night, I fought for honor, and respect, and for love
I stood, three footsteps within Hell’s gaping mouth
Shoulder to shoulder with two lions and I fought an army of men.
And in that hour my love, I became a lion.

Who was it that said that there are no deals between
Lions and men? I don’t know, but we did not travel
So far to negotiate. We came as lions to do what lions do.
For honor, and for respect, and for love we fought.

Tonight, while recovering, I stood alone in a grave yard.
I stood there, in a place I new I was safe. I stood
Among the eternal past and future. I stood, shivering
Within the city of the dead, gothic stones surrounding

Then at dusk, I heard my the voice of my Muse. Halfway across
The world her words of love found me. I felt her skinny
Loving fingers upon my chest, and for a breath I was home.
Then the men came for me, with guns and shovels.

A moment later I was face down in the earth, boot and steel barrel
Pressing hard against the back of my head, I could
Taste the soil in my mouth as he pressed his boot deeper
Into my skull. All of existence was watching from stone eyes.

The grave was alive, more alive than any of us. I was not afraid.
Yet, in that, my final moment, all I could think about was you,
Dear Muse, and the kissing, and the apartment, and the fire
That night on the living room couch. It was you that I longed for.

As the two men laughed and promised a slow death, I was gone.
I was visiting the park, and the trails. I was standing under the bridge along
The river holding you. I was in the apartment of the cafe surrounded
By candles tasting you, I was in my basement loving you.

And then, my Muse, my Mistress Muse, I tasted 400 stolen kisses,
I felt your hands, and fingers, and lips, and mouth, and tongue loving my
Body. Suddenly I felt the end was approaching, Death stole across
The trees and shadows, licking her lips, to make ready for our kiss.

I heard your voice calling to me from Someday. I heard it plainly and loudly
Echoing through the city of the dead, blowing over me from some place in
The future. I heard you call me to come home. Not to Someday, but home
To your arms, to that place my body aches to be and my soul takes refuge.

Even Death heard you and stopped. I could see her beautiful eyes glowing
In the darkness. Time seemed to slow down. Life came to me as breaths,
Each full of power. The earth, and the wind, and invisible ones from time
Past came to my aid. I did not see them, but I felt them.

The men shook violently in fear. They knew that Heaven and Earth, and
Life and Death, and Past and Future had come to me. They heard the voices that came in the wind, they saw the shadows that
Walked And the darkness, coming for me. And they ran for fear.

I think I was supposed to die tonight.
But, my Muse, I am coming home.

Gregory, She Is Gone.

 

“And when the beloved

Is a person

So much the better,

So much the worse.

You’ll know no peace.

Misery will be your pillow

And you will not sleep.

So much the better:

Staying up all night

Talking to her,

Thinking about him.

So much the worse:

Where is she now?

Where, in this wide world,

Is he wandering?”

- How Beautiful The Beloved,

Gregory Orr

 

When she is gone I can only think of the last few moments I had with her.

When she is gone, I can only hear all of the things that I wish I had said.

When she is gone, I turn in bed, and turn again, and hold the pillow tightly.

 

Gregory, she is gone. She is wandering somewhere out there in this wide world.

She is sharing talks, and laughes, and smiles, and stories, with someone else.

Gregory, I understand the beautiful misery you wrote this from.

 

Gregory, what do we do, when our Mistress Muse is gone?

What do we do with the misery? How do we handle the silence of heart?

When can we feel free? When sir? For the truth is, our Beloved is gone.

 

And the greater the love we have for her, the greater the misery.

And I fear that I cannot stop loving her, and longing for her, as she wanders.

And I fear that I will not be the same again, because my heart will not change.

 

And she is gone.

I Am Longing

I am longing.
Here in the dark,
Here upon my bed,
Among twisted sheets
I curl up with my pillow
Thinking. Wanting. 

I am longing.
The memory of your touch
Of your whisper in my ear
Of your sweet fragence 
Of your body next to mine
I can not escape. 

I am longing
For another moment
Another dream
So that I can refuse
To wake up.
To stay, to hold you forever
I am longing

Here in the dark
Here on my bed
Upon twisted sheets
In the coolness of this night
My Muse, My Mistess Muse
I am longing.

Love Me to Insanity, And the Words Will Come Alive

You drive me crazy inside.

My mind runs; constantly thinking, wanting, desiring.

Day dreams, night visions, hot sweats, beads over my brow.

20,000 words tonight but meaningless if you’re not in it.

I can’t write just to write. You my Muse, my Mistress Muse

Are the fire in a kiss, the heat in attraction, the pounding

Of passion in love-making.

 

Words are only dead nouns; letters pushed together on a page, meaningless.

These words, without your frame, your body, and your aroma smeared all over

Them, are at very best, only words. I will not be satisfied until we have made

Love all over these pages. To lay you down on 60,000 words and make

Them all scream to life; every single one. 

 

I want the Zest, the Gusto! I am crazy  for you.

I don’t want to be a known as a great writer- but a lover, a raging lover;

Uncontrollable and so literarily skilled that readers sweat as they read.

They pant, and breathe hard, and embarrass themselves to complete satisfaction.

Only writing born out of that passionate exhaustion will do. 

 

Make love to the pages with me.

I lay here in the dark, with pen in hand.

Come to me, My Muse, my Mistress Muse; wear me out.

Love me to insanity and the words will come alive.