If I tell you a story, will you tell me one in return?
—
[audio:Djaevle_artoftheflesh.mp3] D’jaevle, Art of the Flesh
7 thoughts on “story”
What story shall I tell you?
Shall I tell you what it is to be bound and beaten for the first time in years? Coming back to the scene as if you were a young virgin again and rediscovering who and what you truly are?
Shall i tell you what it is to feel as if you are alive again? To feel the sun on your face and the rain in your hair as if you never had before? To remember what it is to breathe and to walk under the night sky?
Or, perhaps I should tell you what it is to find and seek and loose before you even have again with a stranger who wears a demon’s face?
What story would you like to hear old friend?
Glad to. Let me get my book of tales.
He offered a deluge of words, more often than not in a formal context, sharply pointed. There was little room for arguing with him, though it did not stop me from finding the little nitches in which I would wiggle my way in.
We would argue for hours upon hours, you know. Hurtful pleasures, paid out in lacerations across the soul, subliminally mapping out our ideas and the future roads we would take for them.
Everyone needs a personal demon, he said, one good great love who also becomes the greatest enemy of all time. There was no pleasure in having an enemy you did not know so well. You had to fall in love with them a little to get any satisfaction at all in hating them.
I would simply look at him, adding memories to each column inside, wondering which one he fit into at the time, my love or my enemy. They seemed pretty level mostly.
Of course, there is always that unforgivable line. The one you never hope they cross. But he was born to cross lines and I was born to take him to task for it. Tough love, he called it. He groomed me for it. He lay waste all my ideals. He made me build my foundation all alone, without help. I had to think up every careful stone that held up the idea of who I was. And then he would corner me in a great siege.
Let me raze your castle.
And a great battle would take place.
It was bloody beautiful.
Don’t be too hasty in professing your love for me, he would say suddenly in the dark of night. I would raise my lips from his sweating skin and smile without missing a beat. Oh I’ll always love you, I said to him. Even if I wanted to rip him to shreds deep down. But, you know, he probably wanted to do the same thing to me somewhere deep inside. Even when I wanted him to win at times and consume me, until the fire inside was gone, and I lay looking through dead dull eyes wondering why I still had a soul when things that hurt that much should kill it as well.
It was a personal purgatory, the days we spent together. And it was a testament to something much deeper, harsher for both its nakedness and not so easy appearance. It was a conflagration of two souls meant to be one. There is no love without a great battle and surrender.
Too late, and we become metaphors. If only we had seen the signs, bright red, too bright to be blood, but it’s what we bleed when we unhinge our limbs and falter.
I liked your story, Hope.
Did you? I have many things I’ve captured within my head.
“Too late, and we become metaphors.”
Let me take you through my mind here now. I’ve stolen my way through those incessant obstructions barring my path and calling themselves time and come now into the timeless place. The place of “I”. I’ve spied, within an unmeasured interval, an endless moment in thought. I’ve unraveled it, plucked it from the known unknowable and laid it bare before me.
Once again, I find myself on what has become termed “Divine FM”, and to some I am merely uttering babble. But here are my thoughts, such as they are. This is no virgin voyage of some of them, but I lay them here for you to sample my own mind’s pondering. The least that I can do, in return for those words of yours I’ve devoured thus far.
Those quarrelism pluralisms, which redefine romantism, in a straight jaw fantasism, of you, of me, of life, we leaf, from a tree uprooted in a down rooted state, mm…I find myself endeavoring to write grey fallisms on a black and white slate.—I find myself trying to divine the indefinable.
The neon wonderland. The hot spots of the world. Those places where the souls hang thickest. The evening tourisms, of rewound futurisms, where the law of gravity comes from the deep dark cavity, of inner planetary distractions, attractions, additions and subtractions, without any retractions, become my merry-go-round.
I honestly believe that, without a reprieve of those who touch us most, what we’ll achieve, is a physiological inception, with unlimited reception, that will utilize, or capsize, our diverted pheromones, into full dose psyche blows with organized hormones, or in short…the proverbial mind-fuck.
There we were, words on the page, and here we are visiting them once more, the distance is so short but also far. We’re locked quite nicely in our own mentality, each of us. We’ve become individual soap bubbles in this, our reality.
Wards are the sometimes bottled, infected sections of the mind, where the similar affection can cluster to the find, before they spill, from overfill, into the out-flowing state, and from there we begin again. “The black and white slate.”
We live it until we perfect it. Or we do but try.
And at first, we’re looking with partially gaping eyes, at everything that is profoundly riddlized, eventually we fantasize. We become the sponge, absorbing it all within and expelling it out in our own forms of articulation. This game. This game we must play.
In turn we blaze to be razed, learn and discern, recount and surmount, while we yearn to burn.
And we travel, searching, in uncalculated thrusts, unrythymized, upon a multiplextual layered template we call life, seeking to familiarize, that which has crossroads and side roads. Moving toward unforeseen or unknown destinations, in which we collect even more desperations as we learn.
For all our different roads, still we manage a common link among each other, one individual thread that compels us to pause and pay attention. In unsystematic times, in which synchronicities are multiplied in unrealized similarities, and we find once again those wanted familiarities. We’re walking and talking puzzle boxes.
For some of us, the world becomes hues, bleeding rose red, azure blue, and white lightning, paint the walls, paint the animated stick figures in motion, paint the invisible ambiance of musical outpouring, that bounces off of everything and rockets right back into our very selves.
Thus is life to me as I am become the keeper of sensory, my soul’s secretary taking the minutes of those little awakenings of the flesh that is sometimes mind, that is sometimes flesh and mind.
What we have here is animal magnetism versus higher states of archival anatomical music, versus communication of the soul through voiceless conversation heaven unleashed back into the world.
A ripple through the white noise of vibe nation.
The soul’s song.
What we have here, is art versus life, versus music, bleeding all together. A veritable chalice in thunderland, in this my cup runneth over at times.
Does yours?
Welcome to the rearranged alphabetical deadpool, mixed with life, into socialism.
We are, through continuum, wandering the everland.
We are.
We are now, inverted inertia.
We are puppets on a string when love plays ventriloquism.
It is too late to cry mercy to the muses and never too soon to cry mercy to each other.
Love, lust, all things truly…felt becomes an ink splatter on virgin vellum, where a thousand eyes perceive what is unperceivable.
And we are sometimes fools for love. We are sometimes fools for lust. We are even fools for the flame of the moment of anything besides the stilled coolness we sometimes become.
We need this.
I am the thinkling through the inkling in all of this.
I surrendered to those quandary cravings and I’ll surrender again
.
I’ll read, perhaps listening to your scribed thoughts. And it will not always be you I’ll be thinking while I soak them, noticing the familiarity of them.
I’ll be calling into a another wilderland to the one whom has touched my soul. And all the while I have a litany playing inside…
Hear ye, coalescing, my pierced heart and breath. The unsteady rhythms, accrued within your company.
I have merely this sacred saccharine, dripping from the soul, nestling into the very depths of my heart. Etch lines, the very deepest, accentuately scored. Branded upon me forevermore and into the everglow. It has marked me… and it has marked me well.
And I’ll wonder…
Is it really better the devil you know?
Perhaps by now you are thinking…why couldn’t she have just left another juicy little number, or a quickly blushing comment that betrayed her curling toes. –muses
But what would life be wihtout a bit of strange unfoldings of the mind, hmm.
… I can always leave you another story later.
Eccentric or lavish; it’s not the devil you know that is dangerous, but the devil who knows you.
I bastardize my words, making of them orphans (armed, stout soldiers).
You can have one of them as a gift.
But you can’t name him.
“it’s not the devil you know that is dangerous, but the devil who knows you.”
I’ll keep this in mind. My thanks.
“I bastardize my words, making of them orphans (armed, stout soldiers).”
And do they yell at you, telling you to pick your inner ass up of the floor and give them twenty more?
“You can have one of them as a gift.”
You keep your words, I’m not one for gifts of any sort. I’ll merely peek in from time to time, enjoy myself, speak if I am moved to, and let you be.
What story shall I tell you?
Shall I tell you what it is to be bound and beaten for the first time in years? Coming back to the scene as if you were a young virgin again and rediscovering who and what you truly are?
Shall i tell you what it is to feel as if you are alive again? To feel the sun on your face and the rain in your hair as if you never had before? To remember what it is to breathe and to walk under the night sky?
Or, perhaps I should tell you what it is to find and seek and loose before you even have again with a stranger who wears a demon’s face?
What story would you like to hear old friend?
Glad to. Let me get my book of tales.
He offered a deluge of words, more often than not in a formal context, sharply pointed. There was little room for arguing with him, though it did not stop me from finding the little nitches in which I would wiggle my way in.
We would argue for hours upon hours, you know. Hurtful pleasures, paid out in lacerations across the soul, subliminally mapping out our ideas and the future roads we would take for them.
Everyone needs a personal demon, he said, one good great love who also becomes the greatest enemy of all time. There was no pleasure in having an enemy you did not know so well. You had to fall in love with them a little to get any satisfaction at all in hating them.
I would simply look at him, adding memories to each column inside, wondering which one he fit into at the time, my love or my enemy. They seemed pretty level mostly.
Of course, there is always that unforgivable line. The one you never hope they cross. But he was born to cross lines and I was born to take him to task for it. Tough love, he called it. He groomed me for it. He lay waste all my ideals. He made me build my foundation all alone, without help. I had to think up every careful stone that held up the idea of who I was. And then he would corner me in a great siege.
Let me raze your castle.
And a great battle would take place.
It was bloody beautiful.
Don’t be too hasty in professing your love for me, he would say suddenly in the dark of night. I would raise my lips from his sweating skin and smile without missing a beat. Oh I’ll always love you, I said to him. Even if I wanted to rip him to shreds deep down. But, you know, he probably wanted to do the same thing to me somewhere deep inside. Even when I wanted him to win at times and consume me, until the fire inside was gone, and I lay looking through dead dull eyes wondering why I still had a soul when things that hurt that much should kill it as well.
It was a personal purgatory, the days we spent together. And it was a testament to something much deeper, harsher for both its nakedness and not so easy appearance. It was a conflagration of two souls meant to be one. There is no love without a great battle and surrender.
Too late, and we become metaphors. If only we had seen the signs, bright red, too bright to be blood, but it’s what we bleed when we unhinge our limbs and falter.
I liked your story, Hope.
Did you? I have many things I’ve captured within my head.
“Too late, and we become metaphors.”
Let me take you through my mind here now. I’ve stolen my way through those incessant obstructions barring my path and calling themselves time and come now into the timeless place. The place of “I”. I’ve spied, within an unmeasured interval, an endless moment in thought. I’ve unraveled it, plucked it from the known unknowable and laid it bare before me.
Once again, I find myself on what has become termed “Divine FM”, and to some I am merely uttering babble. But here are my thoughts, such as they are. This is no virgin voyage of some of them, but I lay them here for you to sample my own mind’s pondering. The least that I can do, in return for those words of yours I’ve devoured thus far.
Those quarrelism pluralisms, which redefine romantism, in a straight jaw fantasism, of you, of me, of life, we leaf, from a tree uprooted in a down rooted state, mm…I find myself endeavoring to write grey fallisms on a black and white slate.—I find myself trying to divine the indefinable.
The neon wonderland. The hot spots of the world. Those places where the souls hang thickest. The evening tourisms, of rewound futurisms, where the law of gravity comes from the deep dark cavity, of inner planetary distractions, attractions, additions and subtractions, without any retractions, become my merry-go-round.
I honestly believe that, without a reprieve of those who touch us most, what we’ll achieve, is a physiological inception, with unlimited reception, that will utilize, or capsize, our diverted pheromones, into full dose psyche blows with organized hormones, or in short…the proverbial mind-fuck.
There we were, words on the page, and here we are visiting them once more, the distance is so short but also far. We’re locked quite nicely in our own mentality, each of us. We’ve become individual soap bubbles in this, our reality.
Wards are the sometimes bottled, infected sections of the mind, where the similar affection can cluster to the find, before they spill, from overfill, into the out-flowing state, and from there we begin again. “The black and white slate.”
We live it until we perfect it. Or we do but try.
And at first, we’re looking with partially gaping eyes, at everything that is profoundly riddlized, eventually we fantasize. We become the sponge, absorbing it all within and expelling it out in our own forms of articulation. This game. This game we must play.
In turn we blaze to be razed, learn and discern, recount and surmount, while we yearn to burn.
And we travel, searching, in uncalculated thrusts, unrythymized, upon a multiplextual layered template we call life, seeking to familiarize, that which has crossroads and side roads. Moving toward unforeseen or unknown destinations, in which we collect even more desperations as we learn.
For all our different roads, still we manage a common link among each other, one individual thread that compels us to pause and pay attention. In unsystematic times, in which synchronicities are multiplied in unrealized similarities, and we find once again those wanted familiarities. We’re walking and talking puzzle boxes.
For some of us, the world becomes hues, bleeding rose red, azure blue, and white lightning, paint the walls, paint the animated stick figures in motion, paint the invisible ambiance of musical outpouring, that bounces off of everything and rockets right back into our very selves.
Thus is life to me as I am become the keeper of sensory, my soul’s secretary taking the minutes of those little awakenings of the flesh that is sometimes mind, that is sometimes flesh and mind.
What we have here is animal magnetism versus higher states of archival anatomical music, versus communication of the soul through voiceless conversation heaven unleashed back into the world.
A ripple through the white noise of vibe nation.
The soul’s song.
What we have here, is art versus life, versus music, bleeding all together. A veritable chalice in thunderland, in this my cup runneth over at times.
Does yours?
Welcome to the rearranged alphabetical deadpool, mixed with life, into socialism.
We are, through continuum, wandering the everland.
We are.
We are now, inverted inertia.
We are puppets on a string when love plays ventriloquism.
It is too late to cry mercy to the muses and never too soon to cry mercy to each other.
Love, lust, all things truly…felt becomes an ink splatter on virgin vellum, where a thousand eyes perceive what is unperceivable.
And we are sometimes fools for love. We are sometimes fools for lust. We are even fools for the flame of the moment of anything besides the stilled coolness we sometimes become.
We need this.
I am the thinkling through the inkling in all of this.
I surrendered to those quandary cravings and I’ll surrender again
.
I’ll read, perhaps listening to your scribed thoughts. And it will not always be you I’ll be thinking while I soak them, noticing the familiarity of them.
I’ll be calling into a another wilderland to the one whom has touched my soul. And all the while I have a litany playing inside…
Hear ye, coalescing, my pierced heart and breath. The unsteady rhythms, accrued within your company.
I have merely this sacred saccharine, dripping from the soul, nestling into the very depths of my heart. Etch lines, the very deepest, accentuately scored. Branded upon me forevermore and into the everglow. It has marked me… and it has marked me well.
And I’ll wonder…
Is it really better the devil you know?
Perhaps by now you are thinking…why couldn’t she have just left another juicy little number, or a quickly blushing comment that betrayed her curling toes. –muses
But what would life be wihtout a bit of strange unfoldings of the mind, hmm.
… I can always leave you another story later.
Eccentric or lavish; it’s not the devil you know that is dangerous, but the devil who knows you.
I bastardize my words, making of them orphans (armed, stout soldiers).
You can have one of them as a gift.
But you can’t name him.
“it’s not the devil you know that is dangerous, but the devil who knows you.”
I’ll keep this in mind. My thanks.
“I bastardize my words, making of them orphans (armed, stout soldiers).”
And do they yell at you, telling you to pick your inner ass up of the floor and give them twenty more?
“You can have one of them as a gift.”
You keep your words, I’m not one for gifts of any sort. I’ll merely peek in from time to time, enjoy myself, speak if I am moved to, and let you be.
“But you can’t name him.”
I would never.
Enjoy your evening.