Previous - this entry written on 2001-05-09 at 4:45 p.m. - Next
Ahh... my second entry in less than an hour... I feel more like myself now. Incidentally, the title of this entry is quite misleading. I am not now doing housecleaning, nor do I often, given any choice in the matter.
First, yes, I have finally gotten my lazy ass around to archiving last month's entries. I don't know if this matters to anyone, but it makes me feel much better.
Second, I would like the world to know that I am now officially jobless. Yes, that's right, my name is no longer on the Stream payroll, they owe me back pay, dammit, and now how am I going to get it? Stay tuned during the exciting Struggle for Temporary Disability Pay!
Anyway. Enough news. Time for bad poetry. That's the one good thing about these nasty drugs, I seem to be able to write even more bad poetry while on them than I do while off of 'em. Come to think of it, I'm not really sure that's a good thing. But at least it's an amusing one. Anyway...
tiny paws, sleek fur
a well-fed mouse evaded the cat today
a roar of frustration
small brown creature darting out and away
the cat is glaring at me
I think he blames me for the loss of his prey
and for his humiliation
cats are always grouchy
when you point and laugh at them
See? I'm even cheerful. No blood and gloom and doom this time. However, an older one for you, to balance it out... this one is part of a set of poems, and is titled "Chain"...
silver stretched like spiderwebs
eternity in steel
simple chiming strands
bound and chilled by
honest iron chain
music and movement
solid links in liquid motion
flowing across skin
art given function
desire given a form
what metal can become
*shrug* Sometimes I miss the feel of steel around my wrists... other days, I merely wish to lock it into place around anothers' hands or ankles or throat, watch their eyes as the metal touches skin...
It's a sensation that's hard to explain until you feel it, actually. It's not just the cold kiss of the metal, not merely the physical weight, none of that matters other than as an incidental thing, almost a garnish to the main course, if you will... see, that first minute, when a chain is locked in place, so many things happen.
There's the click or snap of the lock, a sound that is unmistakable... if you're blindfolded, you hear it all the more clearly, and you start shivering, because there's a LOCK there, it's not just a knot, not a toy, not a game, when the lock is shut suddenly it hits you just how real it all is, how helpless you are. Then there's weight, as the hand holding the chain releases it, leaving your own arm or leg to bear the pressure... and you feel it so strongly, it's not mere physical reaction, there's not just the weight of steel or brass or iron... but there's the weight of command behind it as well, a silent order to stay put... there's the heady pressure that comes when you realize that you HAVE no more choices, that you are cast adrift into some nameless dark sea, and only that chain around you links you to safety...
...yes, the person who bound you becomes your shelter. Suddenly, you want to please them, you want to feel them, to touch them, to know they exist... because you can't break the chain, you can't remove that lock, you are entirely dependant on their whim. Pain, pleasure... two very poor words, when held up to the swirl of emotions and sensations a simple touch of iron and a small padlock can bring.
Previous - Next
*blinks* Damn. I'm not exactly sure where that came from... oh, well. I think I need a nap.
Hosted by Diaryland - All Rights Reserved - Image, Layout, and Content copyright Jax Raven -
- Do Not Feed The Moose -