journal toad

the words are there but I cannot speak them. Affluent, Affect, Applecores. The words are there but my mouth doesn't open to say them. Boudoir, Beauvoir, Bravado. I have a fear that this anxiety has ridden me of my only usable resource. My words. My mind, my soul and my body. I should get back to working on my redundant body but it won't heal. Nothing ever does, not my broken heart, not this sickly fever that will occur precisely at noon tomorrow.

I see people. I pass by them in the street and a horn is honked and a horned toad collapses in the street and the moonlight caters to his effervescent eyelids, slowly shuttering and finally closing in rare ambiguity. The new spectacles come in quite handy fashion. While not overtly stunning aesthetically, they do what is asked of them. I can see far, and therefore, can see the future. Where will I go? What will I be? Whom will I share my innumerable amount of hours with? Can I paint you? Can you draw? You looked cute, almost as if you were to curtsy and you mentioned my mustache. You are quite the pretty little thing yourself, all dolled-up with energy, serving your caffeinated beverages only to alienate me and my anxiety. A friend once told me that you can save a lot of time through finding princesses and making them into queens. I rather find myself a bag lady and turn her into a savage. One that would rip my heart out with both hands if she had the chance, or courage, to do so. That is my erotica.

We have touched briefly on the erotica and that's where it shall stay because no one likes a grown man with a foot fetish describing every reflexology massage he has ever given. Or the woman who likes to be sponge bathed by a lover rather than abducted in the bedroom. He lays his hands on her so gently and the event defines mutual gratification. The cleaning of one who needs to be cleansed and the caress of one who finds every nook and crannie to be satisfactory, if not exceptional. The ritual is the erection. The sympathetic flaccidity, the natural onset and then poof. Man at his finest. For only a brief moment. It's how you appeal to these moments which makes you, in so many words, master of your own domain.

Ah! I guess the words have come back after all. Isn't that something? Just for a moment there I thought I was lost, but virtue and precedence proved me wrong. Ain't that sumthing special.

Farewell!