I am writing this to help evolve a dichotic eruption of fluid thought and sense.
A feat made maddening by coaxing and conscience deliberation. Of fragmented aspirations and intellectual chaos.
The inability to categorize and classify the transfinite intricacies of my human condition.
Oh to say what I am would be to calculate the spectral brilliance of light reflected within an ever changing ever faceted plane.
I am therefore the paradoxical paradigm.
Soulful and sublime, sensuous and sarcastic, solemn, sexual, sensational, sappy, synaesthetic and serenely seductive.
And if you slowly, softly give yourself to the recitation of the previous phrase, you can glimpse the sensation of my kiss.
Allow your tongue to delicately caress your pallet. Form each syllable cognizant of your humid heated breath passing across the texture of your lips.
For that reason and more I find such beauty in words. In tactile representations of emotions, a literary liaison.
I go by Macbaby from an artistic point of view Macbaby and simply by Corey in life.
Currently I am an Art Director for a printshop in Texas. I've been in one creative endeavor or another for the majority of my adult life.
From television promotions for all three major affiliates and countless independents to marketing and creative design.
Fist I agree within the construct of art permeating life. Each thread delicately crafted to create a larger work.
Every smoothed edge - or bestowing comment, echos you - the very fabric or spirit of soul. That being said, I'm compelled to immerse myself within you.
To raise your thoughts above me as the fluidic concepts form inside you. To see each spherical mass emerge across the edges of your lips.
The moist heated exchange. To bask in the droplets of your speech that fall with each shuddering idea. Their sweet melody trickles down my throat, traces the outline of my neck.
The strands of hair become matted as the sheer essence of you lubriciously covers me. I want to feel the sensation of you slowly sliding down the length of my soul.
To watch the engorged pulsating lines bury themselves within you - To watch your vision part slightly and envelope them. An interwoven intonation of breath, gasp, breath.
Of Passion, purity and poetry. You compel this of me - more than you know. (1)
I have been told by some that I'm dark and moody. In earnest however that is a quality I try not to indulge or one that I find pleasing in others.
I don't believe you need to suffer to be an artist. I do believe that the amount of experience of emotions will be commensurate to your ability to convey certain concepts.
I have known love and listened to the secrets of my heart, and known the pain of too much tenderness. (2)
Truth states I've Married, Divorced, Loved, Hated, Hurt and been content.
Finding oneself drawn to emotionally precarious people has left me with more scars than strength.
But I endure and try to remain untainted, not yielding only to love's peace and pleasure. For love possesses not nor would it be possessed; Love is sufficient unto Love.(2)
From birth we are shown pure love - unyielding, unbreakable a child's love. From well before the age of reason we seek out new discoveries of love and we find that with knowing them we know ourselves.
More importantly to the human psyche we discover that within the beats of love, lies no more fathomless depth or ethereal height. Through conditioning we construct ramparts and turrets both from which to attack or defend that original crystalline core. When maturity of thought tempers reason, we can begin to deconstruct the buttresses of fear, of despair. We realize that in our crusades to vanquish hurt we have in turn vanquished love. We ache with deepest sincerity and understanding for that pure child's love that flowed so richly upon our arrival. We crave not just to amerce ourselves in that which is received but to erupt that which lies dormant in each of us to give.
So many more times than naught we settle. Tired of the campaign - weary of the bloodshed. Some is enough, if all is unattainable.
We trade our goblets for sifters when we can no longer thirst. We quiet the small voice who still remembers awakening with outstretched arm and open soul to the world.
Humankind fights desperately and with such zeal at an empty enemy known as fear. Fear of being hurt, fear of letting go. Fear of unrequited love or emotion.
The amount of damage we inflict on others is proportionate to the depth of fear we experience at the onset of the battle.
And to the extent we yield is proportionate to the desire to regain pure love.
"Come home my capricious traveler - you forgotten wind lead soul.
I've stroked your heart and stoked the hearth - and unlocked all the doors.
Your mind is tired and weary, Your spirit tattered and worn
No more lessons have you to learn today
Come home my love, come home.
It's time my seeking heroine - you've wandered far from home.
You can't remember what can heal the hurt - searching on your own.
I've made the bed, I'll dress your wounds - I'll caress your windswept hair.
Rest your eyes, let dreams take form, beneath twilights shadowed stare.
When morning comes - all deeds undone will drift gently to the sky.
The ethereal light bids welcome - to disheveled sheets and I."(3)
I was fortunate in my nascent religious teachings as to say that being Methodist, from a scriptural standpoint, my apostolic standards were derived from 4 simple references.
Bible, Church, Family and Society. It wasn't until well after adolescent rebellion and teenage angst that I came to understand that Religion and Spirituality weren't always congruent.
Later still was the beginning of my theological studies of the Apocrypha, Koran, Nag Hammadi texts, Gnostic and neo-Gnostic writings and literature.
What one may gain from all of these sources though varied in their own aspects is quite a jumbled history. A history that can merge fact with fiction,
truth with make-believe and then come full circle back to faith.
So it is enough to say that I believe in God and in religion's role in transcending ones experience to something more tangible.
Be that as it may you most likely won't find me singing in the Sunday Choir or listed as speaker on the Church Bulletin.
A thick Velvet mist has fallen - A silent mutation of color and form.
Where sky meets earth - a longed embrace.
This response comes from their friction, their tryst - these petals of their union and passion.
Mother earth - Father sky, - what tangled skeins we flightless birds have made of you.
Our Clucks, and Caws are little more than amplifications of our jettied necks that mock the very nature of you.
We few, we tiny bound few - our theosophies scratch and peck at the fabric never seeing the curtain or the oz behind. (4)
I have written words that have a poetic feel though I won't
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