My Mistress, Spring.

The first moments of Spring waking from slumber start with her shaking the cold from her Womanly figure. Watch the bare branches quiver post-orgasm in the wind from the temperature/paradigm/pressure change. Still early in the morning, She and those with lesser eyes feel She isn't ready until her makeups on and leaves are on branches but I see her beauty regardless of circumstance and outfit. Spring is stirring from Her sleep. I kiss her eyelids, welcoming her to the light of a new day.

Sins of the Flesh

Drunk in a bar or Insane in an asylum
Passively be pacified
Systematic fellatio

Who determines what's greater or what's good for that fucking matter?

Brown eyes looking skyward, connecting with brown eyes that read nothing but pleasure
Lost in the moment if it wasn't for that muffled sound of needing air and a moment above the surface
A spasm before carnal death with eyes opened to those past sins of the flesh

Aesthetics

Whiskey stained whiskers.
The iron taste of blood sensed before opening eyes.
Cracked lips, the proof of dying from slow dehydration.

Obviously vascular with skin stretched over hard muscle.
It redeems all other sins of the flesh.

Ghost

The only patron sitting at a bar
A Ghost in a pre-neon city

Ghosts exist
I know because I am one
Shying away from the light of day
Silently occupying my space in a house of the living, while the others mill about
The sounds of talk and laughter and marital sex and television keeping me at bay

However
When the house resembles that of the dead;
I dance around merrily
Taking in the fruits of the living
Misplacing things purposely, leaving objects unspoken for

I am a Ghost
I go unseen, for I fear the judgement of living eyes

I grind my teeth and talk in my sleep,
But every other Woman in this town could tell you that.

Growing

Learning the land like a Lover's body.
Paved trails through the woods are museums to nature
Stand silent, surrounded by branches and all that which claims them and you'll see what Grand Central Station was modeled after

I often mistake that hollow feeling for a sense of Zen
Being empty is important
Being empty is being open

A cup must be filled up though so you can transfer that liquid
Water/Gold/Thought/Idea/Knowledge
Quench Someone's ill thirst

Empty has never been synonymous with serenity.
Constant transitioning along the paths we've chosen and continue to choose.

Backs to the Female, facing the Male

Zen for the price of a cab ride
When it's not an open bar but it's free to all with currency
Getting Women more drunk than they truly think
Plan B is in the back of my nicotine obsessed mind
A to B to C only makes sense
But what exactly is that?
The vibrations of humanity and disorder
Resonant frequencies
The drums beat into existence
Always walking a fine line between Zen and being numb

Pain and Pleasure

Female voices carry in a newborn spring breeze
They pass by me with briefness, like leaves continuing their journey to nowhere
A Woman with a voice that sounds like She's given a blow job or two in a movie theatre before

Our existence is a series of brief and fleeting moments
Episodes of coming and going
Leaving is easy but returning proves to be the more difficult action

A lot of people waste their time and life concerned and worrying about juvenile questions like:
"Is there a God?"
"Am I a good person?"
"Will I be happy twenty, thirty, forty years from today?"
These people don't see or know themselves, let alone what passes through their senses

There is no Right or Wrong
No Good and Bad
All that exists is Input and Output
Only Pain and Pleasure