The Mestiza FIles

She Walked With The Gate Of A Liones In Heat

She walked with the gate of a lioness in heat.
The purposeful sway of the hips, her hair swishing from side to side, became a crosscurrent of dark tendrils in the wind. Each step was an invitation, each glance was a promise of unending pleasure.

She walked with the gait of a lioness in heat.
Her lips swollen red, pouting a kiss for the most private and sensitive parts one can imagine. Her breaths were slow and deep conserving her inner energies to be spent in the wild orgasmic pleasures of the consumption of flesh.

She is in search of prey.
She is beyond normal hunger.
She must feed the body, yes, but she needs to sate her soul, her primal needs and desires, her inner fantasies filled, to eat, to consume , to devour until sweet sleep entraps her.

She walks with the gait of a lioness in heat.
Her breasts held high a testimony to her great pride.
Her nipples were now dark and hard with anticipated pleasure.
But it was between her legs that was the centre of all her lust, all her hunger, all her needs.
She could feel the swelling between her legs.
Her wetness now moving down her full round thighs.
Her glances were becoming more and more desperate, more in tune with her other body needs.
It was a need.
It was a want.
It took control of her.
She stood still for a moment, which seemed an eternity.
Her hips swayed gently in her stance, her hair flowed freely in the wind masking her from the world and the world from her.
Her breathing was deep and quick.
Her thighs trembled and her body quaked.
Her voice became lost in a silent guttural scream of intimate and private pleasure……………….

She stood quiet in sweet repose recapturing her thoughts and composure to resume on her quest.
The quest for male flesh.
She walked with the gait of a lioness in heat……

Monday, 13 July 2009

Cicatrices/scars

You did a good job of causing me pain,
Not good enough,
I’m still here, be a man and accept the blame.
My back’s like Swiss cheese
from your psychological knife.
My heart’s scared,
a hidden sign of our strife.
You slowly, masterly, inflicted fear
like some dirty old Aztec priest never shedding a tear.

Many times I let you wear the pants even if
you had nothing to fill them.
Is that why you needed to be in control?
Is that why you hated me?
Did you fear my powerful ovaries, my third eye?
Many times they were more like cojones on the inside.
They filled my being when I stood up to you, now I have both.

Oye, Listen.
Why did you always wear shoes too big for your feet?
You never walked …you shuffled along,
always missing the beat.
Did you really think that women would be looking at them
and think. Wow! What big ……
Ay Papa…., Oh Baby…...What a laugh.
All they had to do was look at your face
with your crooked nose and your crooked eye
leading to your shrivelled, evil, crooked little heart
a true reflection of your soul and that other dead place.

I feel like some kind of Revolucionaria with her
torn rebozo blowing in the wind.
Her white nagua de picos trimmed with blood and shit.
Wetting her lips with tears and spit
With bare feet that try to forget where they have been.
And still full of energy and passion,
proudly wearing cicatrizes on her skin.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Illusive Being In Love

Such an illusive thing is love.

It goes when we want it to stay and it comes when we least
expect it.
It comes painted in one way
But if we take our time to appreciate the hidden richness and
values of its pallet we can see its true radiance.

It comes with trumpets blaring sweet promises of unending
symphonies
It can arrive on silent wings like that of a butterfly,
resplendent in its beauty and innocence.
However it comes, however it embraces you it should come to you . without empty promises or lies

The Other Me

This is the me that you have never seen.

The one who gathers dandelions to make a bouquet

and play with ladybugs.

The one who walks on the beach and lifts a shell

to put it to her ear still believing it holds the sea.

The one who watches a parade of ants and smiles at

a puppy chasing its’ tail.

The one who with the same hand which caressed a

lover’s cheek can arrange the unruly curls on

child’s head and hold the hand of a dying man

The one who digs in the dirt to plant a new section

of garden and the one who sews her own clothes.

She is the one who walks with her head high so her tears

never fall upon her feet.

She is the one who will give without seeking reward

and always gives from the heart.

She is the one who does not hurt for she know the pain

and sorrow of deceit and lies.

This is the one who can love a person for what she sees

inside not for how others see them.

But this is also the one who has not learned to laugh at

the wind.

Thoughts

The verses you are about to read have been written in a certain sequence, however, they really do not need to be read in that manner. Love and pain, pain and love are all interchangable. What matters is that love triumpths over pain and that the pain is a learning mechanism for the rest of ones life. I was once told, ''You always talk/paint about the same shit''. Well, shit happens more often than we sometimes want. That we can talk about it and reflect in a postive manner is a plus, that we can use it as a measuring point of how far we have come is a step forward in the right direction. That we can take that shit and wipe it off our feet, smile and say.'' Ahhhhhhhhhhh shit'' and laugh that is a gift.