I poured this concrete
Mixed together
The burden of love
With the sandy
Salt of reason
And the
Soft sweet liquid
Smiles
Of babes who would
Never understand
Otherwise
It churned
Inside me
Until it grew too toxic
To hold in
So
I poured this concrete
Stepped in
Waded out
Until it hardened
All around me
Now
I’ll spend my nights
Coloring pictures
Of what true love is
And lying
About the color
Of the chalk
Mission Log ~ 3672.49
Ejection within the plasma pod supplied the ideal amount of protection from atmospheric entry. However, all instrumentation was lost within the burn.
I was able to use the cellular compression unit just before the operation panel failed, falling lightly to the ground, and landing in soft, green material that resembles grama.
During the 9.96 I have been here, two hundred and forty nine turns of this oxygen heavy planet, I was assimilated into a familial structure by a human youth, as an entertainment device, thanks in part to my resemblance to a popular range of media. Initially finding it difficult to move in my compressed state, I was unable to communicate. But within his attentions, I gathered enough of an understanding of the technology of this primitive world to modify my flight suit to compensate and to facilitate the belief that I could complete my mission.
Once that belief was established, my main goal was then to gain the trust and admiration of that child, who identifies as Blake, so that I might have assistance among this alien race.
After our first conversation, he was frightened and locked me in a tiny space where other entertainment devices are stored. But I communicated that I didn’t wish to harm him and that I only needed his help. I was then able to procure daily nourishment from him as well as the light needed to work during the dark hours.
He has since become my foot soldier, and was nearly convinced of our need to be free of adult supervision, but lacked the confidence and will to take care of his mother himself. This left me with the daunting task, but there was a semblance of understanding on my part. She affects me as well, though, in a different capacity.
Vivianne exudes a potent pheromonal cocktail and possesses both primary and secondary sexual characteristics which proved to be an additional complication. I found myself hiding through many early morning hours in the dark corner of her dressing space, without weaponry, but surveillance enabled on my helmet, in direct violation of Grand Directive, adjunct 7.452.
My observance of her was not something Blake needed to know about or understand. He is a good soldier, but each mission presents it’s own set of obstacles and secrets for the plan chief to overcome and keep, respectively. Hiding my interest proved to be pointless though, as he retains a level of intelligence that any of my fellows would have underestimated as well.
Upon the first night that I was able to reverse the cellular compression and finally remove my flight suit, I entered her room to eliminate the distraction. But having administered a dose of benzodiazepine into her wine glass that evening, I was able to touch her and smell her more intimately without her full awareness. And in another violation of Grand Directive, adjunct 5.316, I found myself inside her bunk. With her.
Her flesh was pliant, soft yet firm, and as I touched her, she emitted small sounds that compelled me further. Her redolence made my salivary glands active. And, as I drew down between her thighs to taste her, I no longer wanted to dispatch her.For days, I escaped the monotony of plotting and engineering, using my tongue and fingers on her, becoming addicted to those noises she created. Then mating with her, week after week, I lost all sense of myself within the sweetness of her lips, mane, and flesh.
Before sunrise on 3671.92, she nearly regained consciousness in my arms. She mumbled and pressed her mouth against the surface of my pectoral plate, and it took a force of will to escape before her broken sleep turned to full wakefulness.
As I spoke to Blake the next day, he said he had realized I was “in love with her”. He spoke with the acumen of a child who knows things that perhaps they don’t even realize they know.
That didn’t stop me, though. I’d never wanted her more.
And I want her more still, now.
But, I am out of narcotics.
Without the means of forcing her to forget and induce her docility, I have decided tonight to show myself to her. Confess and explain my situation. Blake feels my comprehension of his language has improved enough that she might understand. If she will listen.
My mission might force me to be rid of her. Duty comes before all else. I know that I should kill her.
But, last night, for the tenth time, she looked me in the eyes. Touched my face. Told me she “loves” me, that she remembers and that she doesn’t care what I had done for the better half of a year.
But without the haze of alcohol and memory reduction, I am not sure what she will remember. It is possible she has grown tolerant of the drug’s effects. But she does not look for me inside her daily life.
Her reaction is very difficult to estimate and might be impossible to control. I’ve only ever given her pleasure. But removed the memory of it, each time. And finding her child’s toy is an alien being…
Even if she does remember, she doesn’t know me at all.
I am a soldier. Duty comes before all else.
But I’m honestly not sure what will happen if she does remember. If she does love me. The mission seems like nothing next to that. Nothing.
I am registering and posting this log, having compressed once again to wait for her in her bunk room.
If this mission fails and this log is picked up, do not look for me.
Please. Do not ever look for her.
Nothing could ever prepare you for seeing your home destroyed. Charred by flames and smoke so lethal that the life inside barely stood a chance. Then every opening bashed to pieces by men you respect and appreciate.
It’s difficult to see them the same way, after.
The smell was the worst. Acrid smoke mixed with burned timber. There could have been the faint odor of burned hair, but the melted carpet and singed insulation buried it beneath a thick plastic stench.
An arson investigator stood next to the claims adjuster, speaking a language born of their careers. Stony faces and rigid postures earned dutifully during decades of sifting through the aftermath.
Their hands were cold and rough.
A confession would make things easier, but they had the proof they needed.
The metal paint can had melted inward as the contents burned for fifteen minutes. Or more. Before the carpet in his room ignited.
When he left, he’d been smart enough to close the door. Or smart enough to not close the window.
Fresh air fed the flames until it overtook the walls and ceiling.
Then, the roof.
Molly was in bed, dozing through reruns of Friends. Spike had been sleeping on his spot in the hall closet.
Max had returned for my wife. But didn’t make it to my best friend in time.
They tell me he died in his sleep, from smoke inhalation. He never even knew.
But I know my dog. The smell would’ve woken him.
I saw the door. That closet door that we never, ever closed while he was in there. Deep grooves along the handle and sides.
Spike could’ve opened that door if it was unlocked.
I know my dog.
And so does Max.
It isn’t simple
Resurrecting love
Indignation becomes
A dull ache of regret
A wearied tremble of
Misunderstood longing
A thick copse of
Bewilderment
Empty branches
Still stretching out
For a future
That was once sketched
In fertile soil
An orchard
Illustrated
By seedlings
Dreaming grandly
Beyond the pots that held
Us
Too many
Harsh winters
Faded that blueprint
Narrowing our landscape
Refusing our achy demands
For that which
Nurtures
That which
The earth itself
Should feed us
If only we could revert
To those beatific
Youths with
Dreams bigger than worries
Lust thicker than monotony
Joy brighter than resentment
No
Reversion can only be
Granted to
More simplistic things
Than love
If you wish to remain
A new plan
Must be formed
Reinvention
Instead of
Reversion
A task that seems beyond
My withered old tree
Roots too tangled
To turn his face to
The rising sun
But as I tug and
Shift to free myself
I feel the heat
And glory of
The sunrise before me
Combined with
The sweet warm
Memories
At my back
And wonder
How long could I
Linger
Between the two?
Could I
Reinvent
Reversion?
He woke me. Coated by all that life discarded during the years that I slept. All that time I’d thought I’d died.
He woke me, brushing away all of it. Clearing the death and darkness, beseeching me to show him more. Show him everything. The debris was often belligerent, as I seemed to cling to it in despair. But, beneath the detritus, he quickly found color. Beneath the crumbling wood, he found polished marble. Beneath the flaking mud, he found painted tiles, creating a masterpiece of art and form and beauty.
He woke me, bringing joy and life to the abandoned halls that pleasure had long forgotten. The magic of his love doesn’t seem to know a benediction. The hope within him gleans a future within me that has never before been imagined.
He woke me. And with that debris dislodged and denatured, imagination is not needed to see. The sight of completion is everything in the eyes of a brokedown palace who had only ever hoped to be a home.
He woke me. So that HE might be free.
In his Carhartt jacket
Broad shoulders
Slumped
Tall but unmeasured
Ruddy skin from
Working outside
In the blazing heat
And the cutting cold
Three days of scruff
Dirt lingering beneath
His fingernails
Despite showers
Every morning
And each night
Sitting on the street
In his
F150, extended cab
On his way to
Pick up his crew
For a day of
Hard labor
And
Little reward
He sits at a stoplight
With a CD in his player
No one else
Around
It plays on
Repeat
It plays that song
Her song
As he imagines all the
Minutes
They will never share
Remembers
All the times that they
Laughed, cried, fought
Made love
Ached for one another
Promised to never
Leave
Her smile in the dark
Her fingers in the light
Her sitting next to him
Toes on the dash
Drawing out a future
In kisses and laughs
He stares ahead
In the hour before dawn
At the light telling him
To go
But he stops and
Wonders
How he got there
Singing along
To that silly song
Her song
And when will
He
Ever
Stop
Beneath the glitter
Glow and shine
I am
Very Simple
But
Taught that plain
Is not pretty
By
So many well meaning
Florescent
Examples
Of femininity
Each of those lectures
Handed me a blade
A weapon to use
Either upon those
Ugly girls
Who didn’t listen
Or to wield against
Myself
So that I only
Would have to suffer
The agony
Of being
Pretty
I chose the
Latter
But now
I see the lies
Inside those sermons
For we are
All
Beautiful
In the skin
We were
Born
In
No fingertips sliding over my skin this morning
No palms smoothing, admiring, awakening my curves
No breath at my ear, raising chills across my neck
No whispers of my dreams or your wonderings
No lips kissing away the ache
No tickles, or giggles, or squirming away as you chase me
No hand to hold while we wander or find adventure
No arm to wrap around me, to hold me, to keep me, to make me
No body to curl myself into in desperate moments like this, when I need it… when I need you
No touch to quell the loneliness
Loneliness that’s undiminished by a crowd of interest or the beauty of a constant and relentless life
I’m lonely for you.
Yes, you
Only you
I have
No you
Between the academia of time and distance,
You can find spaces where pure love exists.
In the breath of lovers saying hello and goodbye,
In the pockets of fathers who have wiped away tears,
In the clasped hands of friends reuniting.
Those spaces account for all that is true and right in the world.
Once you have occupied that space,
You will never forget the light there, the scent, the music, the warmth.
The memory will enchant you forever,
Without the limitations of time and distance.
In those spaces,
You might find yourself.
Or lose yourself.
The difference is completely
Unknown.
MelDouleur.com 