his body fits so well on top of mine.

his shoulders are freckled blades of beauty.
the muscles in his arms move and stretch as he reaches down to stroke my face.
his back is a smooth slate of speckled marble,
carved carefully.

I look up into his eyes.

they're oceans flooding my mind.
they drown my soul in wonder.
the oceans roll back into his head
as he leans down onto my body.
he breathes warm, sweet air onto my neck.

then,
it's finished.
he pauses.

at that moment, we are a complete puzzle, because his body fits so well on top of mine.

I weep over my tendencies
And this future of mine.
Inevitably a drunken wreck
In five or ten years time.
This is not who I wished
Or ever thought I would become
A woman so dependent
On her whiskey and ***.
The poor children in this film
Are weeping for their father.
And soon his drunken state
Ruins his wife and daughters.
But the soul my heart goes out to
Is in fact the drunken one,
For I knew that he could never win
Once the war had begun.
I myself feel his pain
And i wish there was a way
To rid me of this vile disease
Before it seals my fate.
But could there be a way
To rid the artist from my bones?
To take away the way
My soul weeps and groans?
I fear my fate is sealed
And I cannot stop the storm
From raining over me
'Til I find myself conformed
To the stereotypes of artists
And who we're doomed to be.
So for my future, I tell you,
I moan and wail and weep.
I anguish over my tendencies
I fear this future of mine.
But most of all, I weep for the day
I first discovered wine.

I am writing this as
I stand -beer in hand- watching
Neil Gaiman being

Interviewed on stage in
Oslo. He has more to say
Than many, to poets

And those living lives; others.
"Writing is like composting.  
You have an idea. You

Leave it to rot... and
Things will grow
From it."

I Feel Like Crying Because
The Day Is Almost Gone

*~Marian~

I'm constantly at war with myself,
and it's always a matter of life and death.