Monday, January 17, 2011
tarantulas are spiritual.very.they have transcended the routine mundane. they swing. they rock. they make love. and then they eat you up. yummmmm. just like that. just so coz you are good in bed. and you taste yum. and well, she is hungry after good sex. always. so i stroke this pet T that i have. gently as she swings ever so softly in her web. the one that she wove between our minds and the pasts and those stubs of insanity that we hold so deep so dear so hidden. within us. so i pet this T that i love. who has suddenly popped up again and connected another strand of the web to my mind. it tickles and she moves gently. crawling sensuously over the crevices on my mind. arousing that restlessness. that little treasured insanity. and as my eyes lock her wide wide ones, that look of absolute innocence. insane innocence. and i stroke. long fluid skin-ever-so-gently-on-skin strokes. just to discover her again. to map her in my mind. not like a picture. but. like a dance. like the water that rushes between rocks after rain. and to reach the spots that i havent reached earlier. when ever i have touched her. with the long fingers of my mind. unbraiding the braided hair that only i can see. with the nails of my thoughts. rolling the balm squeezed from our words in my palm. massaging it gently on her back as she swings on the web. as she crawls on my mind. as she trickles the restlessness alive. and the clock ticks on. and she says. it's time to spread out the bed.