I like my naked women in art depicted in sharp light/dark contrast. It isn’t necessarily sexual (although of course it is), but it evokes certain emotions. The innate darkness of the soul, you might say. I’ve always craved that darkness but wasn’t prepared for it in the past. I yearn to be the contrast. To me, it is beauty. The perfection of imperfection.
Tag: women
Edvard Munch, Madonna, 1896-1902, litho in five colours
I like my naked women in art depicted in sharp light/dark contrast. It isn’t necessarily sexual (although of course it is), but it evokes certain emotions. The innate darkness of the soul, you might say. I’ve always craved that darkness but wasn’t prepared for it in the past. I yearn to be the contrast. To me, it is beauty. The perfection of imperfection.
Your view
Your view: the setting sun, bare branches, squirrels dashing about, wooden balcony slats, a screen door and its glass counterpart, mint green carpet, the very tip of a laundry fresh pillow.
My view: the loveliest hair, yours, glints of sweat on your shoulder blades, and a swarm of bright colors as all sense of restraint escapes me.
Your view
Your view: the setting sun, bare branches, squirrels dashing about, wooden balcony slats, a screen door and its glass counterpart, mint green carpet, the very tip of a laundry fresh pillow.
My view: the loveliest hair, yours, glints of sweat on your shoulder blades, and a swarm of bright colors as all sense of restraint escapes me.
in her embrace
I am sometimes too overcome with lust and distance to remember that the lips I yearn for smile sweetly, speak from the mind, reason from the heart, and can be as still as ice floes waiting for a sense of the sun. In those moments of realization there is a calming sense of sorrow. No longer am I the old boy, the wanderer lost. I am left in a new place where my own lips are exposed to the elements. In her embrace I feel the cold give way to warmer waters. The ice beneath vanishes until there we float alone and count the days with a kiss at sunrise.
in her embrace
I am sometimes too overcome with lust and distance to remember that the lips I yearn for smile sweetly, speak from the mind, reason from the heart, and can be as still as ice floes waiting for a sense of the sun. In those moments of realization there is a calming sense of sorrow. No longer am I the old boy, the wanderer lost. I am left in a new place where my own lips are exposed to the elements. In her embrace I feel the cold give way to warmer waters. The ice beneath vanishes until there we float alone and count the days with a kiss at sunrise.
If this, if that
If this, if that
If every damn piece
Of future we don’t have
Could bite our ears
It’d be in charge
Like the faerie devils
That we see on shoulders
Around the way
Sitting and chatting
Away the loneliness
Screeching of little white
Lies we want to believe
While hiding
And waiting for the shit
To tumble down the hill
Well no, well no
That’s not right
To say that
If this, if that
Is what we hear
And now
You got but one
Devil waiting when
You got on your hands:
A man who knows loneliness
Had wrapped himself
Up in a cocoon
And darlin’
He’s tired
Of if
If this, if that
If this, if that
If every damn piece
Of future we don’t have
Could bite our ears
It’d be in charge
Like the faerie devils
That we see on shoulders
Around the way
Sitting and chatting
Away the loneliness
Screeching of little white
Lies we want to believe
While hiding
And waiting for the shit
To tumble down the hill
Well no, well no
That’s not right
To say that
If this, if that
Is what we hear
And now
You got but one
Devil waiting when
You got on your hands:
A man who knows loneliness
Had wrapped himself
Up in a cocoon
And darlin’
He’s tired
Of if
holy
The word holy means something again. Holy, holy, holy… We can be holy, you and I. The spiritual realization is waiting. I am ready, but darlin’, are you?
holy
The word holy means something again. Holy, holy, holy… We can be holy, you and I. The spiritual realization is waiting. I am ready, but darlin’, are you?