Until next time - a blue flower

Jay M Tea

À paraître bientôt sur Wild Spice Magazine - Brooklyn, NYC http://wildspicemag.com/ ("Charmine" ; "The only love that matters" ; "Mute Church Bells" ; "Touch the sun & kiss...")

 It's just another story. One more damned story thrown wholeheartedly into a mix of chance and fate, fueling an invisible force that carries the night of two guys : [one exhausted spine-broken mad man & a young Satyr of a charming man-to-be].

He's 18. He's 26. In the end, only parted experiences can bridge over the gap between them. But what counts is their union. There's a weakness and an eager inside both, a shared urge for velvet caresses against hairy legs and chests ; reversed brainwaves and drum-beat shaped hearts roaring through the disheveled skull powder of eternity in frozen space and typed dashed super-8 collages of a memory carved for good on their loins.

There's no means more powerful than the extensive use of the plural to express how singular their first night was and how much it meant to both high souls. And what's unique is that hill – now sacred ! – on top of which they were sublimed by numerous given kisses and given-back hands pressing against their ass and growing virility : a spontaneous naked expression of Love with a fucking capital licking L on their lips and itching beards, pushed & pulled under the sp-L of a chill lulluby coming out from their lungs and soft crossed knuckles, out of breath, hand in hand.

One pretends he hates romance while the other one says : “Well, you think but those stars, whether young, old, pretty or not ['Ugly's such a terrible word,' he thinks.], they saw us anyway and there's nothing you can do about it man.”

“Pass the jay.”

“Come and get it.”

Then he takes a long drag of his long fuming stick and drew the young astro-sceptic's face closer, clinging to his jaw and blowing him an electrifying steamy kiss of green.

And the night goes on...

Then a good fuck...

… stupid fights...

Sweet texting & miscommunication...

And a final lack of guts and communion.

In the end, the old one's heart remains unwanted but that's ok. When one knows what he's worth, one knows what he wants. And he wants more – full of liquor and smoke. “Love is my cancer” he keeps repeating and writing. He closes his eyes in the sun and paints a pale blue flower, blooming up in his butt. That's the very image stuck on his retina whenever he meets the wrong pseudo-one, even though, everytime, he is the ABSOLUTE ONE : a rotten cluster of dead cells and greyish illusions.

He won't lie, he's not scared like him, past them and many more to come and regret what he has to offer. He's not a nice guy either. He's brutal & needy all the same – a plain punch in the face (tasting blood with a broken nose and a bruised body), the only thing that can keep him away, and it never will, from falling for even more nights of tender love & insomnia like this one.

Until next time, his biological clock won't tick but it'll flirt with an extreme violence of the circulatory system, flowing cold and off-beat, fucking and boiling with the censorship of the senses and words aiming at the core of ecstasy !

The fall is alright. The rise will glow. The old bitch's heart already shines brighter, lighter than ever.

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