The moon rests en utero waiting for her to release the night. Dusk hangs heavy and exhausted long beyond time for the day's retirement. She lingers in purgatory between ambivalence and confidence, willing to liberate twilight when her powers feel strong and her courage is high. She makes her choice carefully. It must be an unfailing ride to ferry the moths into the depths of darkness, for it's there that broken souls step out of their own hell and find solace in the crowded shadows. She wraps herself tightly in her illuminated coat and contemplates the pounding below her hip. It's not fear, but anticipation. Longing to reach the place where she'll find peace in opaque dreams. Hidden from the eyes of those that would judge her; removed from the tight grasp of those that would tame her. She turns the wheel to her lunar guide and blossoms like the moonflower in eventide. ~ Francesca
The world, as we know it, is a heap of people, a sea of tiny flames. Each person shines with his or her own light. No two flames are alike. There are big flames and little flames, flames of every color. Some people's flames are so still they do not even flicker in the wind, while others have wild flames that fill the air with sparks. Some foolish flames neither burn nor shed light, but others blaze with life so fiercely that you can not look at them without blinking, and if you approach you shine in the fire. There are those of poor spirit and there are those of great spirit. None are without it but the flame flickers pretty low in some cases. The majority of people seem to be nothing but a little flickering flame. You know that when you match them against an individual who is all fire, all radiance. Those in whom the flame of the spirit runs high truly are the extraordinary examples of human beings. If you are great you can stay that way and people will believe in you, swear by you, turn the world upside down for you. But if you are only partly great, or just a nobody, then what happens to you is lost.
Driving along the love lane, waiting for the inspiration to find him, he sees the woods and concealed amongst the trees, recognizes a true map of the universe, just as it is, a dirty green that spreads out shapelessly, with narrow paths and screams in the darkness. It all blow's up in the mind of the artistically insane. She is bored, mindless, soulless and ugly in her flawless beauty until that moment of interaction, business connection, lustful love that they are both ignited, just as quickly gone. Creative inspiration is a fucking fantasy come to life. Dark, delicious, dangerous, delightful, ethereal. It has a pornographic effect on him. Ecstasy of the mind, a type of alive that is a fleeting flash of fantasy more palpable than reality he is alive only when stirred. "I fear the death of inspiration, the death of thought that exists in the collective mind of a numbing mass mentality," he thinks. I would rather burn alive with living. The mind of a madman is a dark maze of intensity. The girl, her carmine lips bringing to life his monochromatic existence. She is his to possess. His to capture, to enjoy till it's time for the next one. Ruthless, evil incarnate they dine with the devil who serves red mouths and youth for appetizers. "Souls for dessert", smiles Lucifer as he looks the madman in the eye. ~ Kalahari
Be ever mindful, dear Sir, that not all pretty faces have pretty intentions and not all lone travelers are lonesome. She was in the process of straightening her sundress and trying to appear not to notice him when she caught his attention and his foot found the brake. The car skidded on the gravel for a few feet before coming to an abrupt stop almost kissing her dress. She bit her full lip to resist the urge to grin, cut her obsidian eyes and lowered her delicate chin. The introductions were short as she was so exhausted and overcome from these hours on the road, helpless and stunned. He rose valiantly to the call of shining knight, scooping her up into his chariot to her carnal delight. Little did he know, this clueless stranger, that nothing going through his mind was a mystery to her. She knew what he was thinking, she knew that he was like all the others. A bee drawn to her nectar, not keen enough to realize that the more beautiful the flower, the sharper the thorn. She took great care to assure that her hem rode up just enough to keep him distracted, to shake him a bit, for his nervous chatter was quite revealing. He was not a knight after all, that much she knew. He would prove his worth eventually, his true colors would show and she would be free to take control. He never saw the glint of the blade, as the stars blinked as to not witness and her dagger set him straight. ~ Francesca
A bare thigh or a thumb in the air can only lead to certain despair when you take a chance on beauty so fair that she must be too good to be true. A look of innocence required no effort on her part, so when it became a necessity, she thought nothing of it. A stunning beauty, gifted by her pagan Gods with the visual charm of a young Cardinale. A cunning vixen, learning early that her impish charms could bring her any number of rewards. With Cicciolina, you'll never get what you see. In fact, it was festering and putrid, beneath the stunning veil of youth. Even before she was aware of her need to control men, she had a skill for cutting her eyes a certain way that would render any man senseless. She used that skill many times, and it fueled the darkest parts of her being. She found the complete mesmerized looks on their faces both disgusting and empowering. Her mind drifts, strolling through the path of potential suitors that could come calling. Her bewitching resplendence a consummate host, delivering wanderers, wonderers, travelers, and poets. Serving them to her in a bountiful buffet, feeding her ever-increasing hunger for all of the life's vigor. The dust on the road kicked up just enough to cause her to squint back into reality. Surely someone would come along soon. ~ Francesca
She was born in nineteen-sixty and I heard it said that if you can remember anything about the sixties, you weren't really there. She could spend a lifetime trying to remember good times past, could maybe even hear her tires scream 'Drive me wild', but the thing that makes them glory days is the fact that they are done. It's over now and she has settled down, forgotten but not gone. That is when I met her. It was in the late century and, well, she had been passed around a bit. Her soul is bowed down to the dust and her belly is stuck to the ground. A garden gnome, that is what she has become. What a destiny! Somebody in her checkered past had smashed her windscreen, like a person who'd had facial reconstruction, her features never lined up exactly plumb again. Broken trust, creeping rust, worse for wear and stranded alone for evermore. When I framed her she was trembling. A pile of rust, a fuse-popping, mouse-bitten, oil-spilling mess, with the air of shattered beauty that only fallen angels have. "You still have pretty," and by the time I was done, she was exactly as I wanted her.
Did it start at the groundwork or did a chip from the upper ledge surrender to the force of nature? These veins along the wall are more than a distraction; they're a map that I study between slow drags and hazy dreams. A map to hell or blueprints to a maze with no escape. I watch him there watching me, but I can't find the strength to run, my soul fully exposed. Not that he minds, all he sees are these legs that fit perfectly around his hips, the woman with words that rest easy on his lips. Let him stalk as I fight the battle inside, he won't step in unless I lose my way. In that case, it might be too late. Wait, I need a light. Now, back to this journey through my unraveling mind. Where am I exactly? This could be a secluded back street alley, where I'm able to rest my feet and reflect on the girl I used to be. Exploring the world with youth filled vigor, loving freely each thing that made my body tingle, my heart quiver. Or a streetwalker's lover's lane, where I stop for a cigarette and weariness dissolves my refrain. That's where my thoughts settle as my limbs grow cold. I wear this crucifix around my neck, I know my voyeur is a few steps back, yet I feel unprotected, alone. I know better than to let my weakness show. I'll plan to think about this later - but for now one more smoke. ~ Francesca
I am a woman, and I possess an intuition and a collective power in a mystery that no man can ever understand. A photo shoot makes you feel provocatively seductive, sensual. To be photographed is to be desired and there is something intimate about it. A photographer takes a soul, and for a professional soul-obscurer like myself, I find this a challenge, a duel. It is an experience that delightfully inflames. I am passionate, and I feed off the visual hunger, it is as rewarding as the purest opium. Thus, I had dressed with a purpose. My black coat powerful, dominant revealing just enough to tempt and I had the attitude of indifference. This carefully balanced contradiction is something I have perfected, and it drives men to distraction which is where I want them. I crave the greed of a man who can control me. To submit to a man, his will, his thirst, is intoxicating to a woman who is mighty in her femaleness and I am. I luxuriate in it. I feel its warm strength, and I sense its potential. A man who desires me enough to want to dominate this is almost irresistible. This man I obey, with delight, but not entirely. A complete submission needs a belief in a human soul that is worthy of trust! ~ Kalahari