TrustFlow results for luvlymish

27 May, 2006 at 11:43 (Uncategorized)

Contact to contact…spreading we in all that there is
Information lights together and all we are
Puddle together and pull in
Look, ripple, pull out
We a web
Wyrd.

Hmmm not my best effort but then it was inspired by an LJ thing below.

I tried out TrustFlow II for LiveJournal. The following people not on the friends list for luvlymish are close by:

More results below the cut…

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20 May, 2006 at 09:59 (Uncategorized) (, )

Only One Word In English

There are stars that have died a thousand years ago or more, but it is only now that we can see them on earth. Some stars have shone on earth for longer than one life can imagine and they have seen all the inadequacies and greatnesses that lifetimes upon lifetimes can prove. If there were creatures watching, orbiting those stars, then they would be dead before they could tell us everything they had learned. Still we have watched the stars for millenia hoping for wisdom.

Our knowledge of each other is nothing
Only what he said
What she said
What he said she said
Still…
We know things no one else knows

He turned away from the deep blue night and the cold stars to look at her. She lay, head on one hand, the other out in front of her, fingers splayed in the dirt. Her hair in untidy curls obscured her mouth and the blanket rucked up around her knees and shoulder.
Gently he pulled the blanket straight, covering her bare feet and wrapping it around her shoulders. In sleep she looked so peaceful, forehead smooth, mouth relaxed into a soft smile as though there were no posse of men chasing them and she was safe in her bed at their parents house once more.
He stroked a stray curl from her cheek and turned to the night again. He could not hear horses and the air was still, perhaps they were no longer riding night and day to find the two of them. Perhaps even there might be safety in the mountains. He breathed in the air, sweet with the tang of night, it was not like the foetid tasteing flatlands air he had breathed throughout his life. That sweaty tasting flatlands air which he and his sister had run from. Up here beneath the old moutain stars it tasted of tin and snow.
Then he turned and saw the man dressed in fox skins standing over them with a knife.
“Wake ‘er.”
So he shook his sister awake and she opened confused clear brown eyes to meet his blue. Then the man dressed in fox skins ordered them to lay in front of him until the dawn came and he marched them back down to the flatlands for his reward.

A crowd gathered in the centre of the village they had run from. The man dressed in fox skins held his knife for all to see so there was no one to made good on the threats within the eyes of the crowd. Those same eyes had called them cousins months ago, in another lifetime, before those eyes had butchered his family.

They were tied there, in the centre of the village, for all the crowd to see as the man dressed in fox skins was paid coin for their retrieval. He left hurriedly after he recieved his coin as though unwilling to see what he had delivered them to.

It was stone to which they were eventually tied, the crowd surrounding them as they struggled. Their backs to the stone, spread-eagled, facing outwards, the stone between their struggling bodies but their fingers trying to cling together. He heard her screams as they split her open, felt her fingers grip his and spasm. His screams joined her own when the knife split him from gullet to sternum. Their fingers grew weak but never left the others as screams became blood-soaked gargles rising into the foetid flatlands air.

We know – what no one else can tell
What we have seen – we do not ourselves know
Until we speak
In that language which is our own

She lay there feeling wanton and satisfied, turning from the flames to look at him. He lay on his back, his eyes on her as she drank in the sight of him. Skin dappled in the sweat of their love-making, his throat pale in comparison and long as a girls but lightly stubbled. The stubble sank to meet wiry brown chest hair that she had wound her fingers in countless times, that had rubbed against her own bare breasts mere minutes ago, that had stroked against the insides of her thighs earlier that afternoon. Her eyes climbed to his own. Her clear brown meeting deep blue and the intensity of the gaze stretched in electricity between them.

It is impossible to say who moved first, but there was a sudden flurry of bare limbs and both had crossed the slight space between them. The sensation of bare flesh touching bare flesh, pressing skin against skin in all places at once cannot be described by words. His body trembled against hers with the same coursing tidal flows that are found only in deep water or the magnetic pulsing of the planets.

Then came the kiss and the sensation of falling, of tumbling gently through space. He took her hand and stood up, pulling her to her feet.
“Now?”
He nodded and they turned away from the fire. She opened the door to the snowsnorm that still raged outside, breathing in the essence of snow and tin that the breezes offered to her.
Holding hands they walked out, naked into the soft white flakes which at first melted on their skin and then began to cling. Their touch was warm and even as their fingers cooled, blued, froze, their hands held tight.


We know it cannot be told
For fear of
What she said
What he said
What she said he said
Still…
We know.

There was a jostleing and a crowd around the results noticeboard. Somehow she found herself at the back and meeting the blue eyes of a skinny guy with floppy brown hair. He rolled them expressively.

They both forced their way in and out of the crowd, breathing in other peoples sweat and smells, gasping at the pollen-sweet air of freedom outside. Then they found themselves side by side, walking along the path by the field.
“How did you do?” she asked.
“Ok. You?”
“Yeah not bad.”
An odd sort of camaraderie had been born and they walked close together along the path, the air warm around them.

“I’m going this way.” she said abruptly.
“Ah. Well, it’s goodbye then.”
“Yeah…”

She looked up, his blue eyes meeting her clear brown, and stepped into the embrace he offered.
His arms wrapped tightly around her body, her arms around his, feeling his warmth beneath and their eyes met once more as she left his embrace.
That moment of their eyes meeting encapsualted forever all that they had meant to say and everything they had been or ever would be to each other.

“Goodbye then,” she said.
“It was nice meeting you.” he replied.

She turned and walked across the grass, the air sweet, as the bright summer sun hid the two of them from the stars.

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In Unexpected Directions

17 May, 2006 at 22:41 (Uncategorized) (, , , , )

This was inspired directly by a friends poem, although it reflects my ideas on love and the differences between her and my love.

In Unexpected Directions

To be a creature made of silk,

Being a Guenevere,

Some unreal,porcelain beauty,

Has me quaking with fear,

What then is my alternative?

To become an Elaine? 

Pockets of bandages and pins,

A nurse to those in pain?

A useful sort of person?

I’m sure I despaired when I thought,

That that was all was left,

I have held secret my desires:

To paint my nails so deft,

Curl my hair and know what to wear,

Know weird secrets of girls,

But not to be a pretty sort,

And flounce, my hair in curls...

A pretty sort of person?

Not I, no fear, George was my aim,

No Timmy-silliness,

Leaving the faffing to Henry,

With her laces illness,

But this was mimicry,unreal

Should I be like others? 

Like me,why this is not for me!

Copying my brothers.

A tomboy sort of person?

Then can I be some artist’s muse,

Delicate and whispy?

Pah! Far rather sell my soul than、

Be lipsticked and lispy,

A muse like that is an echo,

She, something like Susan,

Reminding…a Guenevere sort of show,

Or an echo of man,

An echo of a person?

What then, am I left with Elaine?

Left to be but useful,

Guiltily wanting desire,

And to be beautiful,

But my lovers were my muses,

Never the other way,

I, an artist to do as she chooses,

With imagination not mimicry, 

I, my own sort of person.

I was tricked into thinking that I had,

Limited choices,useful or useless,

Elaine or Guenevere, equally sad,

Neither fate is mine, I make my own mess.

So rough and steady hands I see I have,

But they are not to catch,hold a lover

To weave a magic from my kitchen hearth,

So lover’s may choose to take it’s cover.

My home is not of the practical sort,

I’d rather it was made of fairy gold,

Certain it will fade in one night, it ought,

One night is enough、it cannot be sold,

White bandages, none, but a little pot、

Of magic cream、foul-smelling, hit’s the spot.

My magic cream is an antiseptic,

But it is the magic that makes it work,

I have this magic working you sceptic,

In our homes foundations I have it lurk,

They will not be in practicality

I’d rather have their roots steeped in romance,

Of the elvish sort, rich in pain, beauty

Than have my hands and feet too coarse to dance,

Magic will die and our homes will tumble,

When our homes have fallen I will be dead,

What care has my spirit for walls, crumbled,

This love on wilful passion has been fed,

I WILL be as soft to touch as I want,

I WILL be as hard to bend as I want,

This love of mine and yours and yours looks like...

A poets dream, An artist’s viscera,

Spread on the page, in the hills on some hike,

To be home is to be split with terror,

For our home is our art,mine and yours love

Not for us wholely artist, wholely muse,

I am not your nurse nor your mother, love,

My capabilities you cannot choose,

Amiable?Say rather passionate,

I believe in love built in shifting sands,

In beauty, moonbeams, magic incarnate,

Nothing more substantial between these hands,

For substance may be cracked, torn and broken,

Some visiting darkness up and tearing,

Until nothing is real or worth sharing.

What is mine,ours, and moving as the mist,

Can’t be harmed, nor taken by another,

From within only is it felt, touched, kissed,

Practical loves please take from your mothers,

Do not kill my love by naming it so,

Depend on me only, only for this;

I will love you all the while I come, go,

Whilst my muses dance for me, you I’ll kiss,

This love will never leave me, so depend,

On my witchcraft but never my nursing,

I will to you listen, love and defend,

Your name you will never hear me cursing,

I want one thing, desire me as a man,

Don’t need me as a child; love me, a man.

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