Guys, I think it’s called performance anxiety.
Paralysis of the greater gain in exchange for the
lesser good. No one moves- but rather, just lays there softly day dreaming, fantasizing about senseless pokes- jabbing at non-reality. No pressure. No pain. Nothing to gain. It’s all good, safe and easy….
but you’re deluded. you’re completely insane.
you don’t even have a body. you’ve only got a
head that’s bouncing off the screen…
Because She really IS there watching you watch Her. She isn’t just the creak in a rocking chair or a black ghost in a white room. She is the face of you, that you just can’t rise to meet. The truth is, Her reality is a stalker of what you know you really won’t ever do, which is actually get it up long enough to make a difference. (If you know what I mean) And it’s just not good enough to flirt with blow up dolls or angry men. It’s just not good enough to hide behind words you could never say out loud.
“I’m afraid, mommy. Tell me you love me. Tell me I’m a good girl. Tell me I’m your man.
Let me think I’m WAY bigger than I really am. How can I be like you mommy? I want you to think about me mommy. Mommy , mommy, mommy, hot mommy I need to wean myself off of you, but I’m addicted to your scary nipple mommy….”
Sad. Sad. Sad, guys. Truly haunting.
You know when it happens to you…It’s a deep gut retching connection…
You see someone who REALLY sees you -and it’s only then, that we know that nobody else has ever seen us at all.
And this person now is too powerful.
Who REALLY hears us- and we realize that nobody else has ever heard us at all.
And this person now has too much power over us.
Who REALLY loves us in a way that is beyond our ability to return.
We can’t explain it. We can’t love back. We’re addicted to the slaughter of our means. We’re addicted to our disappearance into them.
We talk and we testify, we exclaim and we exalt –
but guys, the truth is the truth, love hurts…and you’re scared.
It’s called performance anxiety guys.
(and we need to work it out)
Basically, when push comes to shove, you’ve got nothing to shove.
Little paddling baby feet running straight back to the crib. “Mommy was so mean to me She told me to go away until I’m a man…Mommy said She won’t cuddle me forever and let me hurt myself. Mommy said, “don’t suffocate your daughter.”
Bad bad mommy….
Get it up and I mean it.
It’s for you, not for me.
Otherwise, just go. Go off on a new cyber date. Find another digital face. Stare at another sexy screen. Write to a new fantasy face.
LIVE AND IN PERSON- because this is personal. And you know what you’re doing…
it’s a cold hard chair you sit in. It’s a worn out and tired keyboard. It’s a lonely bed. It’s a waste of Her possibilities….
You sell your life short and come to Her crying:
“Please help me. You’re the only one who can.”
But you don’t really want help- or Her love -or wicked passion at all, you want a new nipple- one that might be softer or more fruitful -more obliging than the last.
I don’t nurse, guys. Get it up or go.
“But mommy, You said you would never leave us and you’ll save us forever mommy…”
My beautiful, sweet baby bird, you came to the wrong mommy’s nest- because my birds can fly.
My babies get it up fast-and I push them over the edge- and they fly -or they die. Let’s put it this way, I don’t have many babies around with love songs left to sing.
Afraid of heaven’s pearly gates?
Afraid of hell’s eyes?
So you sit and stare at pictures of me? Why?
Don’t make claims to Her you can’t deliver.
Don’t leave Him high and dry.
Don’t waste another night hugging your pillow.
Stop writing me love songs that you can’t sing.
Everything is for you my beloved.
My Goddess. My God. My bad little boy.
There is no beating around the bush.
We start at the bottom and we push.
We push hard and we don’t stop.
We break through into Her Diamond Light.
Only then can we tell Her,
“I love you”
Because let’s face it. Talk is cheap. What’s the point of sending out wedding invitations if you aren’t even getting married?
And I’m as guilty as you are because I know better and I participate in this dream affair
because you have nowhere else to go…
but to me.
Straight into my flaming arms.
But if you really are intent and determined.
If you really do have magic hands.
If all you do is think of me.
If you know the secret seven words.
You know I’ll be here to untie you.
But since none of that’s true with any of you.
(You know who you are, big talkers…)
I don’t do half way.
Half way: that would be the path of Sky Humpers (refer to previous post) -and so you need to find someone else to do your training wheels-groove with. Someone else to practice on. I don’t need another timid chihuahua.
Panthers and Pythons boys and girls.
not pants pulled half down.
It’s a tight spot we’re in called Jungle Fever.
vines and swamps and animal sounds.
dark movement under the trees.
something is in my bed with me.
I can’t move. I’m stiff. I can’t move.
Finally, you tell the truth.
Coming in claws and hot jungle nights.
Coming in kisses and red spider bites.
Coming through. Coming through.
Coming through you….
I love you. I made you. I dropped you.
I broke you.
my sacred heart. my lightening rod.
because you think about me, I’m able to get inside of your head. flash and strike. but I’m still not dead.
Whose face are you holding anyway?
Whose gaze sustains the toy?
It’s called performance anxiety guys,
and it’s a sin.