Tonight I meandered through the tele channels, and settled on Globe Trekker. They were walking Paris, showing us the spots with their bright lenses. One detour brought a bookstore where Anais Nin, Henry Miller and oodles of others, shared words, glances, rumbling desire. It looked snug and very warm. So many books and nooks. I wanted to crawl like a cat through pages, and listen to the poets read their voice.
Nin, Miller - I've read a bit of their work. Although I'm more into their mythology… an amateur really. I've tried reading Miller and have yet to get the hook. He's messy, passionate, cruel yet charming... Anais Nin's desire seemed more in line with Mine, sensual, curious, exploring shame and hidden desires.
And their bodies lay to dust. Yet their words still entice us. I fantasize about passion that deep and reckless. I tend to be more controlled in romantic choices than most. Men have to accept that I enjoy this work with you little offspring, and I'm sometimes shy to share it.
Real power tends to be selective. And our secrets, give us mystery, and sometimes keep us sick.
Let your darkness breathe with Me, yes let's see how you open, wide...
