20.9.10

And After




I recently asked CHM if she would work with me on a project I had in mind. She gladly obliged to which I am very grateful. I asked for one or two images to go with a short story I have writen but CHM, ever prolific produced six! This was an opportunity too good to miss and so I have taken the liberty to use the following, along with some words of mine, to post here...




i want to drown in your ocean and feel your sapid salt drip from my tongue. i want to feel the blunt geometry of your hips rise against me like a tide. to trace the marbled carriageway of your thighs with fingertips that flutter like moths across the hungry swell of your vulva. to lay face down at the altar of your being and breathe in that intoxicating scent. to feel the stubborn mystery of your belly as hands steal over your undulating camber, desperate to devour the hard swelling yet softly yielding fullness of your breast.
lips brush lips. petal soft and blushing pink.
my tongue a traveler in the rebus of you.

i want to trace the echo of your spine and draw electric circles on the soft down at the nape of your neck and follow the bump and dip of your back with shallow bites and kisses down to the cushioned pillow that softens the point of your hips. i want to press my mouth to you perineum. between anus and vagina. listen to your sighs. watch you shudder. legs part to the push from my knee. my hand grips your moist desire and i lift you up to me. a peach impaled. a fruit that weeps its wanting. your hands claw the sheets carving crazy patterns in the linen. your head drops and rises to the rhythm of my thrusts.
you grunt in time to the rhythm. low animal sounds.
my maleness a provocateur in the fervor of you.

and after, when ardor has grown and flown like the explosive beat of nightingales wings bursting from the womb of venus and we lay extinguished like super novas grown cold. like stars that have burnt incandescently bright and now spin in a limpid orbit. captive to tangled limbs. coated in a gloss of sweet sweat. in the battleground wreckage that is the disheveled ruin of our bed. and after, when passion is spent and mirrored by our flacid flesh. our hands explore. the muscle in my jaw. the fine delineation of your cheek. our nipples now soft. your hair a confusion of wanton pleasure. your hair that hangs heavy and black and redolent with jasmine.
we smile. smug, self satisfied grins.




5 comments:

Ruela said...

great job!

Pete Hoge said...

this is the type of blog
I like to see...there are
so many to choose from and
so little time.

P.

CHM said...

uuuuuuuu I'm sweating like mad
gona drink jasmine to dry up
thanks cj

A.Decker said...

The painting looks like Norman Rockwell had a conversation with Rene Magritte.
The words are like incense.

Rosa Niña Guerrera said...

Before this post, I have been vaccinated against virulent your imagination;)

A hug........Rosa.

Is discharge Dada? No, it is not. Influenced by and with a similar attitude to, but not Dada..

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All creativity is the springboard for discharge. It highjack’s a multitude of genres and disciplines and transposes them onto the internet. discharge is electronically transmitted art, be it via blog, myspace or whatever format possible, it can also be produced and seen in classic formats.

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The aim of discharge is to profile creative people and to do away with the pretension of the art world. Everyday people creating art everyday to an exceptional quality.

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