The Cherry Stem
Cherry lips that know how to tie a stem into the shape of a Swan.
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The jewel, the prize
Looking into your eyes
Cool pools drown your mind
What else will you find
He’s so smooth. Mr. Butter. He’s so nice at what he does. Effortless. A once in a generation species. Watch him walk! He glides! He gets it! All smooth and jazzy cat rat pack type sitting in a smoky back booth velvet ropes and here it’s class… calm… aristocratic with a fragile reminder of Big Tobacco’s failings leaving our lungs smokeless but our Hearts Open.
Theres another type of spot now, real unhappenin’ LED lights and music loud enough to flood an empty mind and full of promotors and too many tattoos and the girls are commodities that have sucked dick for a backstage pass and I can’t judge - they’re using what they’re momma gave them and above all else: have you ever laid eyes on an Ant, a cockroach, and really gave much care to judging it’s being? The other gender is there too. The worst of Them. Half bred guidos with majors in Event Planning, Business Management, and the two love each other in a symphony of mediocracy that sounds much like Bassnectar syringed with meth. The two lock ketamine eyes. In that moment they’ve both forgotten they’re Nobody in the Big Game because Here, together, under the pulses of the DJ board they don’t care to think about anything except pleasure. I’ve seen the eyes of wasted potential. I’ve wept.
God. To be 20 again. Said nobody except those that squandered each jealous year after that third decade turning point.
Show me your works. Show me what you’ve done, who you are. At this stage I only see a badly stained soul that’s too wrapped up in The World to ever be free. I tell myself often to stop being so cruel but I believe if a Cancer Cell were to materialize and shape into the form of a Human and try to rub shoulders with you that you, then, would get me. Jesus showed grace. He was Better.
The camera now flashes back. Mr. Smooth, Sir Kerrygold leaned back on the seat.
Beside him - long bare legs stolen shape of a Chanel mannequin, stretching from floor to ceiling that then turn into a black leather skirt, no stomach skin showing, a seamless transition into a loose top bare collarbones reflecting orange light and snaking up the light’s glow lands on cherry lips that know how to tie a stem into the shape of a Swan. Call it whorigami.
“It can’t always be night.” He talks out loud to himself as is his style. If people respond, good. If they don’t, ok.
“Who said it could be?” She responds, looks confused, let the confusion go, returns to Being Pretty.
“Nobody says it but we all live it.” He checks his watch and watches it count down to something felt, known. Just around the hour hand.
She’s ended the rummaging through her bag and takes out something for her face, pats aways, looks at herself in the mirror before turning, “what’d you say?”
I’ve caught myself counting down the minutes until sunset. How devastating! And at night… when the moon is high and the times are harder - as Big Hem said “it’s easy to be hard boiled during the day, but night is another thing” - I catch myself counting the seconds until sunrise. A fresh start. When the day starts I’ll have been cleansed of the Moons spell. How confusing it is for one to live, or wish to live, hours in the future. The Awakened, Spiritual Third Eyeist of The Yonic Earth say be Present and I promise you my frail vegetarian disciple, I’m trying!
With age comes rigidity and that will stick to you like tree sap. It will cloak your body. One must groove and shake and move. Crack the outter wax before it hardens let the Sun melt it as it won’t always be night but even if it were to be, there’s beauty in the shadowed hue that sprinkled the World during that.
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My next challenge was to see if I could exist in that state where everything is Gold. Permanently. But it hit me that if that was to become my new baseline, the joy, that ecstasy that’s felt when those random moments pop up will all but be eliminated. It’s those moments that keep us fluid, seeing the Big Picture and those moments operate under no rhyme or reason, no Sun nor Moon. They’re inside you and
… a final thought … if I handed you the razor would you slice your own outter layer to have some pieces of skin in the game? I promise you that’s when it all opens up. Bigger stakes. Bigger days. Bigger shots - and hold the lime.
Winston
Souled Idea
Mr. Cheering Up
The Man Looking up at the Bright Sky
The Man Taking A Moment To Look Down Too
