Fly away in a little bit Fly away in a cloud of strings Like the sun on an icicle You found your pair of wings.
When the time wasn’t over yet When the time was ready to begin When my heart was red lying in a box Waiting for the sticking pin.
There you go, I know your eyes Fire with a flash of pain Feel it burn, feel it end What is the name of this thing that remains?
Fly away in a little bit Fly away in a cloud of strings Like the sun on an icicle You found your pair of wings.
There you go, the hand that wears the glove of velvet red Like a woman, like a child, is the man afraid of his own death Like a woman, like a child- the man who will never fight Flickering beneath the sky and dying that same night.
Fly away in a little bit Fly away in a cloud of strings Like the sun on an icicle You found your pair of wings.
There you go, the man I know whose legs are far too thin Find the box and open it to push your stick pin in Fire I know, death I know, I also know your eyes Like a woman, like a child- the man who never lies.
Fly away in a little bit Fly away in a cloud of strings Like the sun on an icicle You found your pair of wings.
Stars shine, tracking time Watching us they gleam. Warning do not live inside a dream.
So stern you check your watch. Light your cigarette Look at me: Are you ready yet?
We could chase the the happy things that disappear Running like a stream Watch me now and see the way I follow them Dying in your dream
Running through the green green grass Dandelions bloom A universe just inside a room
Draw the curtain burgundy I’m staring at the stars You come close hold me in your arms. Pour wine it’s your time, light your cigarette Whatever you want is what you’ill get
We can chase the the happy things that disappear Running like a stream Watch me now and see the way I follow them Dying in your dream
Running through the green green grass Dandelions bloom A universe just inside a room
Pour your wine it’s your time your gone. All the things you wanted will go on and on Leave the room, watch your step, find your light Stepping out like darkness into night.
But everytime you leave I feell so cold inside How can that be right? Turn my head & think about another day. Running through the night
Running down a green green path Dandelions bloom A universe just inside a room.
Did we chase the happy things that disapear Running like a stream Did you see the way that I Drowning in your dream
All the starts align into a cube A universe born just inside this room Stepping there so easily a dream inside your mind
Then lit his cigarette I knew so soon Cigarette shine across the room Pour your wine its time then your gone.
Pour your wine, it’s your time, light your cigarette All the things you wanted are the things that you will get All the stars seem to aligning forming in a cube A universe just inside this room.
Pour your wine it’s your time your gone. All the things you wanted will go on and on Leave the room, watch your step, find your light Stepping like a adfe into the night.
Even with you here i feel so cold inside How can that be right? Turn my head to dream about another day. Running through the night
Running down a green green path Dandelions bloom A universe just inside this room.
light your cigarette When you leave the room I will forget Nothing in this world has touched me yet.
Saw his ax between the trees He took his aim right at my knees Still I am one.
Hid behind the trees in fright I stood there frozen through the night But he was gone.
Did he find another world? Well I don’t know. Either way it’s time to cry They tell me so.
Pull myself between the sticks The sky was dim, the mud was thick Still I am one.
Something move inside my hair I jump three feet, was that him there? No he is gone.
Find a town to wander there Without a name. Watch them throw their marbles down For one more game.
The town. Mirrors all around. Windows to the sky. So I shut my eyes. And in the darkness flow. Into the woods I go. The night a single time. The town a single mind.
Take a breath to watch the sky See it open big blue eye Yeah we are one.
Hang their clothing on the line Through alleyways the people wind Into the dawn.
You could ask them where to stay But they won’t know. They just came to laugh and play They’ll tell you so.
Hearing men talk, I get the impression they store sexual acts in a Precious Memories scrapbook. “We’ll always have that night in Paris.” They seem to be under the delusion that women will also remember sex fondly regardless of what came after.
But for women, sex is a portal which can’t be separated from the world it led to. If it led to nothing, looking back the sex seems bland and sandy. If it led to degradation, retrospectively the sex feels like a spider.
It’s like unwrapping a beautiful present only to realize it contains your parent’s head. Once you know what’s inside, you remember the ribbons differently.
Ultimately, the dick cannot impress unless the man does.
Your penis will never occupy a special place in anyone’s memory unless you- the being connected to the penis- made a beautiful impact on that person’s life. Otherwise, your best moves are quickly overshadowed by a donut vibrator as your weiner’s memory fades in the rearview mirror. To shrink, to shrink again, then vanish altogether.
Or does a speck remain?
Either way, it is the man that makes the dick. Never the reverse.
And when a man himself is something wonderful- when he has an uplifting transformative impact on people- when he changes their lives for the better- when he isn’t afraid to roll up his sleeves and get messy and dream, grow, hurt, be humbled, change, endure- when he can embrace pain & strive to become a hero like the ones in storybooks- then I believe his penis lives forever- growing longer & longer in the memory of everyone he touched.
A glass dildo received as a gift. It is funny because I refer to glass dildos frequently in astrology readings as emblematic of Neptune in the House of Sex but didn’t realize they were a thing in real life.
It was given to me by an astrology non-believer who of course has Neptune in the House of Sex. Fascinating perverts.
I’m trying to figure how men and women can be in long term relationships. The problem is the difference in how they process emotions. It appears that men place all emotions into two categories:
A) Positive emotions. Yay! Good!
B) Negative emotions. Bad! No!!!
Positive emotions mean “Wow! You are a Great Man!” Negative emotions mean “I’m Angry Because You Suck!”
To women, emotions are colors and flavors. There are thousands of them and always new ones to be discovered. They rarely stand alone but are combined to form intoxicating brews. A dash of anger, 3 tears, a laugh…. now some bitterness to make the joy pop…. a glug of euphoria grounded by a trickle of disgust. Emotions are paints and we paint something new every day. It is an exhilarating world. But strangely- to men- this world does not even exist.
They see “good” emotions. YAY! “Bad” emotions. BOO! The emotional experience they crave seems- to the female palette- like the sort of tasteless goo you would serve an invalid. That’s what men call happiness.
They want Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. Every day. Try serving something more complex and they excuse themselves. To give you space until you get it together. They’re not mad at you. They’ll just give you the time you need to get back into Mac & Cheese mode.
To a man, the perfect woman has one emotion. Happiness. If you curve your lips upward and say “Gee that was Terrific!” they are satisfied. Happiness has been reached. Happiness is the goal.
From a female perspective, happiness is the yellow crayon. What can you draw with just that? Straight happiness is a stack of saltine crackers. Yay, yay, yay, yay, hooray, hooray, hooray. Eventually you can’t eat anymore. But he doen’t want you to eat anything else. Black coffee means you’re mad. Black coffee means he’s bad.
Being pressured into permahappiness is like a slug being salted to death. Every bland smile is more salt on your back. Unadulterated happiness is mental and dehydrating.
But men need you to pull out that yellow crayon every time you see them. NOT THE RED CRAYON!!!! NOT THE BLACK ONE!!!! THOSE ARE BAD CRAYONS!!!!
And it hurts to give up this magic. It’s like being lobotomized; just in a different part of yourself. It makes life flat. Something is gone that no amount of smiles can replace. The man can no longer please you because you’ve been separated from the source of pleasure. Pleasure is hatred, terror, insanity, confusion, intrigue, jubilation, awe & crankiness. The full range of feelings running wild.
But I don’t like hurting people. And to men, complex emotional palettes are a form of torture. Same as it might be torture for a woman to listen to a man explain engines for three hours. So I try to be nice by being the sort of woman they understand. Somebody with a brain like theirs, but only half as large and twice as smiley. I don’t want to give nobody nothing they don’t want.
But then I can’t breath. So what is the solution? I don’t think men are bad for disliking emotions. Nor do I think it makes them less loving. It just seems to be a form of energy they can’t process.
It makes sense that women speak the language of emotions since it is the language of babies. We automatically interpret cries and screams as opportunities to connect and help.
Sometimes men prey on this. Life has shown me that… generally when men cry and scream like babies they are not communicating anything real. They just know it triggers something in us. I think men’s most common response to pain is to hide it. It probably makes sense for warriors to hide their vulnerabilities. An excessively emotional man is usually being strategic. Perhaps then, when women are emotional men see it as strategic as well. Trying to control.
My opinion is that women rarely try to control men simply because we lack the desire to dominate them. The idea of throwing a man down on the bed and trying to mount him is repulsive.
But men interpret dark and negative energy as an attack, rather than an opportunity for depth, romance & healing. A man reading this post will likely respond “Wow you hate men! You think they suck!” To a male brain, I am discussing problems because I am mad at men and want to attack them.
To a female brain, I am discussing problems because I value men and want to make things better. Women dwell on problems as an expression of love. We find it enjoyable and transformative, like marinating in a broth. New understandings gel. Possibilities open up.
But men don’t like this. And you care about him so… you try not to bring up problems and focus on compliments instead. The compliments become repetitive, because without dark energy to carve new spaces, light energy has nowhere new to go.
Of course the dynamic changes when men want to have sex. The man in pursuit is not a man at all, but his own species. These creatures can take all your emotions. They swim, they live underwater. Your very essence is beautiful to them. Finally, a man with whom you can be yourself!
The problem is, much like sperms, these humanoids have short life spans. They die once their goal is reached. Even if they don’t reach their goal, they die soon enough. A man appears where the sperm being once was. His mind is transformed from an accomodating squiggle to a tower of fragile cubes. It is no longer safe to jump up and down in his presence. Positive energy only. Your days of being free are over.
So what is the solution?
To only date males in their sperm phase then throw them back once they turn into men? A tempting idea, but they turn into men at the exact time you are getting attached to them. It is hard to let go of someone you love once every cell in your body wants to please them instead.
Perhaps the answer is to always stay immersed in a private world of creativity, like a fish in a bowl, a secret universe where you can use every crayon in the box. Maybe this magic world does not need to be shared with them, maybe that’s too much. Maybe they just need the depth subliminally absorbed from the little things women add to their life…. a mug, a meal, a scented candle. Women fret that men don’t notice these things, but that may be for the best. They swim into his subconscious directly, never dried out and sealed inside his cube tower.
And we need men to hide much of themselves from us as well. We like to enjoy the benefits of male intelligence. But can you imagine if they shared all their thoughts? We would die of boredom within the hour. Perhaps when we open our female worlds to them, they drown.
