Tight Curves and a Whiskey Sour


The other evening I finally had a chance to sit down and free write for a bit.  It was good to pull some words and fashion them into something semi-poetic.  Whether its quality work or not is really beside the point, because personally it was very cathartic.

My running free write themes seem to be women and cars, which is a tad ironic considering I’ve been in a monogamous relationship for three-years and I know absolutely nothing about cars.  However, that being said I find women beautiful, and I like a bit of speed and danger in my life, so perhaps my reoccurring elements occur for a very definite reason.  Nevertheless, without further ado let me present to you, “Tight Curves and a Whiskey Sour”:

Tight Curves and a Whiskey Sour

Flirtatious flirtation escaped her lips at four minutes past midnight.  The red gleam glinted perilously from her lips to the car’s moonlight glint.  He smirked, as she shifted between his thighs, and he shifted up a gear to speed past the 5-0 in as little as 5.0.  Smirks in all directions as black lights lit up the skyscrapers.  The white turned lavender accentuated her curves, and he turned sharply just to hear a screech and feel both curves tightly.

A pair of lights shone brightly in the distance, and peaked just as the curvature of the Earth hugged the cityscape.  Like a tight pair of jeans, her genes wove harmonically around a double helix to create something more than Mera.  Water gently fell and floated around a symmetrical axis before hitting the hood of a supercharged piece of muscle.  Flesh intermixed with flesh in the driver’s seat as the two pairs glinted and sparked in union as they passed one another.  Strangers in the dark connected only by ball lightning and the light splash of Gala’s breath.

Simultaneously, a man served up a Whiskey Sour and sent it careening to the end of the bar. It tumbled and by the physical laws stayed contained as the gloved man caught it in a flawless motion.

“A second please,” he firmly stated.

“But you haven’t even…,” in a gulp he finished the drink and stared.

A second, a third, and eventually an eleventh appeared.  Red lights fell across the district until…

The Beauty in Damnation


Today, I had a wonderful conversation with my mother about the beauty found within F. Scott Fitzgerald‘s prose.  We passionately conversed about various Fitzgerald stories, whilst discussing his effective structure and brilliant insight into the mundane.  It’s as if he found beauty in the most average of things, but his professional perception of the world far exceeded his knowledge of it; he somehow managed to harness it, and translate the beauty he saw into terms that even the damned would find fascinatingly gorgeous.

Many writers, especially of Fitzgerald’s era..actually…of any era, seem tormented by their senses.  Alcoholism, sickness, an insatiable sexual appetite, a willingness to forget, and (unfortunately) a morbid curiosity of death ran amok and many literary geniuses were squelched before they ever truly blossomed.  Fitzgerald’s suffered from severe alcoholism, and can’t even be removed from greats that passed before their time; however, when his pen found the paper he elated the simple and noticed the obscure.  And, for that gift I uphold his esteem slightly higher than others.

Fitzgerald seemed to compartmentalize the overwhelming and focus on components of it as a whole.  This allowed him to find the beauty between negative spaces and chronicle the mundane as extraordinary.  Once compounded and taken as a whole the exquisiteness still remained and, once assembled, was incredibly applicable to larger issues.

Instead of describing the sadness found with life Fitzgerald discussed the would-be sadness of life in such a manner that it’s true splendor was revealed and then the over arching and truly saddening issues could be brought to the limelight and discussed over the pretenses of realism.

Fitzgerald wields a certain spell over my literary sensibilities and once boiled down my mother and I were essentially trading impressions and admiration over the legendary author.  It was a great conversation, and it definitely spurs me to blow the dust of some old novels so that I can be transported back to the first time I first encountered Fitzgerald’s particular brand of genius.

Like a cliché motivational poster found upon the library of Jim Trelease:  “A Book is a Time Machine.”

The Soft Whisper of Vinyl


A crazy little flutter entrances the heart of the beholder.  It’s slight, almost mute by nature, but the beauty of her golden locks only accentuates the slight flush, as the words escape her pink lips.  The heart not only flutters or skips several beats, but it passes whole notes and sheets of musical inquiry.  The world stops only to notice the love shared between the two souls that not only share the depths of one’s eyes, but also the tangled strands that weave about between every sheet of music the graces their mantle.  The notes slide down these strands into the misshapen song that not only skips and scratches off of the perfect imperfection that is the vinyl of life but they also create a new song that can only be heard by the two that hear nothing more than the soft whisper of each other’s breath.

Flushed


Trace the curvature around the soft lines of a beautiful woman.  Clutch the beauty and take it.  Ask her for forgiveness.  Plead for your sins.  Weave the life you were meant to live by transcending the trivialities of the plan.  Come to together, fall together, and run together.  Tell he she’s your queen, tell her she’s the one.  Embrace the sheets and find the ecstasy you’ll find in between them.  Dab the fallen tear as it infinitely glistens and refracts the multiple hues of azure.  There is no room for salted tears in a land filled with ghost and goblins.  Only strength and survival are welcome there.  Tap into the Yggdrasil root and clutch the seed of life as you plunge into the clear waters.  Swim to the shore and kiss her.  For there is only one, and she deserves a kiss.  My chips may lay in the sand, but just like your cheeks, I hold a flush in my hand.

A Man Out of Time


I feel like a man out of time; not quite here, not quite there.  I have thoughts and revelations, capricious notions scattered throughout a contemporary wasteland.  I am told I am clever and witty.  I merely adore the arts.  The beauty inspired by others inspires me.  It wishes me to compose my odd prose.  What better career, in an age of doubt and atrocity, is there than to be surrounded by pure awe?  To hear an acoustic riff that sparks the electric soul to soar into a nostalgic cloud is an experience of humanity; to see the brush strokes of a master as they depict the sadness and happiness of a life is an experience of humanity; to smell the vast wafts of spices, sauces, and herbs is an experience of humanity.  They all propel the soul into a stratosphere of transcendental elation.  I want to be a writer, not because I believe I am talented or am deserving of the career, I want be a writer because it allows me to share a piece of these beauties.  It allows me to be apart of something greater than myself.  I perceive the world differently because I see the beauty of it.  The horrors are masked, eroded, and non-existent in a land filled with art and culture.  The written word is my avenue and the pen is my Mustang…all I have to do is drive.

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