by giadancer | Sunday– 27th June 2004 | dreams, musing
Moats of grilled octopus and eel
fill my dreams.
Meat mattresses and Grecian stalks of radicchio (purples and teals)
foreshadow the paths I will take to streams.
I’m a lizard in this night reverie
and more and more in my days now every.
Prancing in and out of waterfalls
and basking in the mist of doing nothing
but acknowledging everything to me that calls.
Maybe a ten-toed sloth or quilless porcupine;
I see graceful pythons and perfect people divine.
Jesus was purple; or was he not?
I could be mistaken.
I was mistook for purple once too.
I may be olive, but never green.
I’m a kalamata
(pit).
Visits: 21
by giadancer | Thursday– 20th May 2004 | absurdist, love, musing
Tumultuous tar pits ease themselves
into the disguise formerly known as “your anus.”
Do not tempt me; I will go there.
You’re so old that you’ve still got
the hard taco on the outside.
Just wear your diaphragm and a helmet;
your prominent jugular won’t get in the way, I promise.
An Indian nugget has deposited itself
into my overnight bag.
This is the last thing I need,
another pesky Hindu barging
its way into my consciousness.
Popsicle dreams never disappoint me.
I am a muse in disguise.
A bed of nails will do me just fine;
ascension will be my ultimate tribute.
Human beings are such cowards!
You may scoff at me. You may.
But others will not.
The natural order will reveal itself-
as not existing.
Do not please me, I refuse to be pleased.
It is not within my scope to accept mercury.
The last time we do it
will be just as the first, a medieval paradise.
Give me nuts and seeds;
let my vegetation do its glory.
Rate of Change = Rate of Loving
Do you see this?
Do you see me?
Do you love me?
May 2004
Visits: 70
by giadancer | Wednesday– 5th May 2004 | bemused, musing
Images, dreams, wants, needs, wishes,
scents of coffee and apples and nuts.
Felines stacked on tops of lego lengths
of dully lacquered piano benches.
Nicks in my brain should have been filled in by peanut butter.
But instead, my heart was taken for granted;
and out I came, with a grapefruit under each arm,
wondering how I got into this castle
and why I would ever want to get out.
The cage door slammed shut
and I heard nothing after that.
I didn’t know what fighting meant.
The last drink gave me a virtue.
How I got there, anyone’s guess.
How long will I stay?
As long as I still want myself.
Visits: 21
by giadancer | Friday– 2nd April 2004 | absurdist, jazz, language, love
Homemade juxtaposition sauce
with sizzling sirloin lizards
on a side of soft shell spankings.
Roast prime devil, venous green salad,
subdural hem-sho; beatnik don’t know.
Meet you in your room at half past
pluming pummels. Plum-laced perfect!
Visits: 100
by giadancer | Monday– 29th December 2003 | bhakti, light, love, myth
We have lived and loved
from the privacy of our reserve,
that reactive space
just above the surface.
We inhabit the physical place
but abide by the passions
that govern ancient spirits
afar.
In the playground of the knowers,
the lovers, the givers;
we are creators,
the authors of life,
monkey-barred minds
and sea-sawed hearts
with sandy-floored souls.
Fueled by sensation,
we are those to whom
fear is only a myth,
a story told by
the Others.
Photograph by Gia. Vindhyachal, India
Visits: 48
by giadancer | Friday– 24th October 2003 | bhakti, favorites, love, sensuality
I wake up to you, my everymorning brew,
the image of your heated arms.
I tumble into sleep for you, my eternalnight pacifier.
I thirst for you, my essential soul fluid.
I eat only enough to glide back into your safekeeping
so I have room to devour your love
each and every precious moment I am granted,
for your presence to enlighten,
handfeed my creative pony.
My mane obscures your process,
keeping it behind stained glass
and just distanced enough
to satiate my always illusion of not knowing.
You substantiate my essential mythology,
giving of your ashes as fuel
with your purpose.
I meditate upon you
that is, to God, to the surrender of the universe
and all that is my truth beauty, that is ours,
and which is sought for by all,
and naught to be attained.
It cannot be, in living or dying;
the oneness of us it not to be understood,
but to be cherished, by all that is good.
It is in simplicity that I love you.
The only way that I can.
More and more through every molecule.
Feign acquiesce
for you, my essential soul fluid.
I eat only enough to glide back into your safekeeping
so I have room to devour.
Photograph by Anderson J. Gonzalez
Visits: 20
by giadancer | Thursday– 19th June 2003 | favorites, jazz, kama, love, sensuality
Winding nights of life infuse our burgeoning blood
with confounded needs and unfounded insecurities.
A neat titration yesterday,
dripping sapphire desire into fidele base.
Tonight magenta clouds bubble through
my cylinder, begging for mutation, for your beaker of molten jazz
to saturate, adulterate, reiterate our implicit bondage.
June 2003
Painting by Randall Paul O’Rourke
Visits: 49
by giadancer | Thursday– 15th May 2003 | kama, seduction, sensuality
You speak in euphemisms of your own making,
rattling off sycophantic truths in tongues
and ostracizing the periphery along the way
as they patter all over your sapient misnomers.
But I am caught in the know;
seeing the ice castle worlds that inhabit your mind.
I slide down them with mirth in me,
exalting in the cool sweat left
glistening along slick, bare flesh.
Your genius coming drips down the length
of my backside,
sloping into refreshing flux.
Lashed by your mindscape
I am outstretched, as on the rack.
Spread onto the clammy wall,
with such heat that fuses flesh into plaster
skinned and pink jaws of cheek and ear
just as envisioned, mollified with matter.
The obsessive tension of possession
famines my overextended knuckles,
reddening ravenous tips
clawing and bleeding into solid with desire.
A breath already drawn and stuck
laxens my mouth into dripping lips
with supple anticipation.
Your gaze is riveted to me
undistracted by the throb of predestination
flaring in your loins.
You remain unimpressed, a pacing pragmatism
reeling in explosive coolness,
polarizing this blinded beauty from behind.
To struggle is to surrender.
For you are already behind me
spreading fire through my limbs.
At once catalyzing my lascivious circuitry
with syncopated breaths, cogent grip
over my quivering synapses. Solid in waiting,
suspended sanguine, until you come,
convulsing in contradictory convictions,
the Marquis himself never inspired
such
wicked devotion.
Visits: 18
by giadancer | Tuesday– 25th February 2003 | darkness, disenchantment, musing
The starkness of a chestnut glazed table
willing to stare back at me with a dare.
It challenges with a static potential,
that which only a table can muster.
I cannot be envious of that.
But I do envy that on it sits a brazil nut
contoured by shadow.
A brazil nut that
too may desire purpose.
If it could,
if it were not
just a legume.
I being more than a nut,
or at the very least
greater than or equal to,
do percolate with such desire.
But lying here, wrapped in chenille and scarves
find the realization of my purpose
much further off than the arm’s length
fulfillment of our artless brazil nut’s fate.
If I do extend my non-hungry palm
I will eat the nut, for the sake of Brazil.
I might.
But instead, as accustomed to,
I will not force purpose into my palm.
Thus, I continue to sit.
Encloaked less by blanket
than by denial.
Visits: 242
by giadancer | Monday– 24th February 2003 | bemused, darkness
Stubborn orifices of steel block my vision.
I am tapped;
though malignantly, not dripping.
Cosmic joke.
Clots of core being
surge out of my system,
lumping my cauliflower veins with yesterday
and liquefying said obstructions tomorrow.
In this fashion,
my core self has been leaving me
alone, hardly breathing
in a mire of self-pity.
My soul, I fear, now clumps,
petrified by judgment
and withering into tumors of former ambition.
It remains imprisoned by my frenzied ego
who’s encrusted by the fear that simmers with
the rite of internal suicide.
Jump.![]()
image by Gia, faces in a wood door at Alchemical Studios
Visits: 23507
by giadancer | Sunday– 29th December 2002 | hope, love
I.
We have each traded ourselves in
for the other.
Seeming to fulfill the dense plot of desire
that we continually harvest,
the perennial property of our existence.
II.
Do not love me, for you do.
Disengage the affording branch
from my corridor
and plug it into your own.
Reintroduce your ambition to its origin.
Here it may meekly dip only one trait in
(but permit practice sessions).
III.
You are being beckoned now.
Your old self of reality
screams through me.
Breathe yourself in;
I know that you see me
and think that you love me.
In fact, you do.
But the love for your soul
must thrive in harmony,
strengthening each individual love.
IV.
We are one.
And previously, as two,
we found ourselves, alone and connected.
Brief brushes often maybe, at times,
even now; elemental brilliance is still possible.
Merely, understandably, in hiding.
Don’t you think,
that sometimes, we should all just live
from within the masquerade?
Like it is a masquerade.
(For it is.)
Here, we star in our own plays
allowing ourselves to be playwright
by entitlement and luscious capability.
Ultimately culpability, I know!
V.
Will you join me in the forest of decadence?
Wear your costume of true self.
Not the daily duds of conformity
that we have become so accustomed to,
but those that exude
the exuberance which draws.
VI.
This game is not for them; it’s ours.
Shear your landscape
into the most outrageous design imaginable.
Curse the censor;
fold him up into his can.
VII.
I cannot fall in love with you anymore
as I repeat every three beats of my heart.
And yet, I will.
Regardless, bubbles do brew and tumble
voluptuously, so far from our union.
Stop scrutinizing!
Encouraging eruption, minus becoming,
will not.
VIII.
Just take the swell of the storm
into your body
and simply allow yourself to become it.
Feel that you will lose yourself;
and there, sitting divine and naked,
you will find yourself.
And meet the one that I love.
Visits: 133
by giadancer | Wednesday– 6th November 2002 | favorites, kama, love, sensuality
In our decadent cradle of human entwinement,
I find my release from worldly things.
Your entrance opens the gates of ecstasy
as you probe my deepest cavity,
surging your life force into me.
I see nothing tangible-
Only the mythical creatures
swirling around us,
splashing us with brilliance.
Shifting shadows of spiritual forms
that merge with us.
In darkness and in light.
I hear nothing audible-
Only the primal moans that emerge from our depths
and the coursing of blood;
Mine, yours, the heavens.
My senses edge into that new dimension
Unattributable to the orbs
Unattainable by mere orifice.
I taste myself on your lips
and with your essence heating my breath
I plunge my tongue into the wetness of your mouth,
thrusting into it as if it was my own flowing chasm.
Our sex combines into an irreplicable elixir,
my tongue becoming its own entity.
It seems to think,
that it can meet your very soul.
Yes, my own slithering snake begs,
like my writhing body,
for your all-encompassing ofference.
I have taken you into me
As my self-devouring need dictates.
I cannot resist the carnal abandon.
I am hopeless in the face of your love.
and if you dare set your fiery gaze into me,
the final wall will crumble into the wayside.
I am yours
I am yours, throbbing as I do
Only for you.
![]()
Visits: 17
by giadancer | Saturday– 7th September 2002 | artist, darkness, musing, social, sonnet
Monday night, the demons again take holda’
The well-meaning shell of a disheartened guru might.
It only takes a first order, whiskey and soda,
Like every other unmeditated night.
Wiley gnomes emerge from his mind, unclothed;
Sardonic screeching alights their pathway
Littering the airway with candied souls betrothed.
To the solicitation of those wrath may
Eagerly consume caustic winged messengers
Whose only folly is their own blunt malady.
A waxing tendency to perch on impulse centers
Brazenly unravels idyllic spools of blasphemy.
Back to London, sweet soul. You’re poorly suited for possession.
Leave Jack to other would-be geniuses’ creative recession.
Visits: 8
by giadancer | Monday– 10th June 2002 | love, sensuality, travel
The kingdom divinely promised,
centuries before my conception,
for twenty-two years, appeared
only as a shadow invitation–
bewitching, through smoke walls
and silken mirrors.
Ropes of gold led the way
loosely fashioned about my wrists.
Threads of knowledge, taste, and experience–
each spun for the purity
of its own vital fabric.
Churning emotions arouse
internal tides, awash
with yearning.
The wonders I have seen,
and unearthly pleasures tasted
weigh heavily on my soul,
the soul of the seeker.
So said, perpetually in flight
until she dips her soul in Paradise.
Coated with trembling ecstasy
in the least expected of days
a land of treasures,
a man of pleasures.
Oh, the magnanimous announcement,
generally reserved for chartered ears.
Here, now erect, it portrays us.
It betrays us. It’s the continents again.
We are battered
but ultimately unshaken
by the chattering of the masses.
Unafraid to forage twisted foliage.
That winding verbosity of
two strands that lay together
awaiting cerebral rejection
but instead finding spiritual unification.
If the latter is to be,
our two life forces will fold into each other.
Becoming twisted
into
the tango of soul.
Visits: 16
by giadancer | Thursday– 6th June 2002 | jazz, language, musing, travel
Golden serpents reflect clouded aspirations
and dilute enlightenment into dust.
Unicorns on tap,
degenerate horns the same.
Duality collides in foam,
and crystal line faithfully follows.
Red, green, white, brown,
color without ground.
Gold label wishes spawn corporal delight.
I sip, I think.
Tequila drains and I sink
under watchful bartender’s watch;
he barters, I the martyr.
Empathetic refills offer buoyancy,
offer logistics to linguistics.
There, climbing golden towers appear
where snakes once sputtered,
powdering their scales, exfoliating our fear.
Delicious venom lacquers the runway,
eyeballs dash around.
Slithering tongues caress my shoulders;
nub of wing, stub of horn.
Gory gamblers
slap the dice down
for a joint in a snifter.
And for under-the-table tricks, little known
are the New Zealand drifters, the British bombers not quite,
our randy kicks ‘n’ their swingin’ misters,
all convened here in one Portuguese night.
How now, the Castilian escapists, the dance floor rapists,
and somehow, Gypsyified me.
Blarney revelers need not apply.
At the tip of essential Iberia.
June 2002
Visits: 201
