I often dream while laying at the beach. Sometimes, like today, I dream that all my needs could be met by being with the right girl.

We often think we have met that perfect person before. And why not? We have spent our entire lives doing what I am doing today - looking, and dreaming and feeling the mysterious sense of accomplishment that can only come from our common plight as a species - the search for good sex with imagination, which for me is synonymous with love - redemption for being an animal with a heart.

The waves gently lap against the shore, which is an unusual beach in that there are rocks, some quite large, strewn all about with patches of perfect sandy areas. I am lying in such a sandy area right now as I write this and when I look up I can see people in the distance, other people looking for the same thing as I.

The whole layout of this beach could not be more luxurious if we all planned it this way, with the natural rocky barricades at once emphasising the distance between us and the closeness of our common experience – of the solitude for which this particular stretch of beach in western Canada is famous.

Not far from where I lay with cool ocean air tantalising my legs, my long dishevelled blonde hair and sun soaked face and body, a young couple is talking and laughing unaware that anyone can hear, and no one but I can hear them - not that I suppose they would mind. The girl and boy are making what can only be called naughty noises – long pauses followed by interruptions of spontaneous laughs and grunts and not all of the grunts are from the boy. They are obviously engaged in the time-honoured part ritual part fantasy of making love on the beach. And they have picked the best beach to try it – this is the only nude beach in western British Columbia.

My wet glistening cock gives a sudden stir, recognising before I, the even and universal rhythm coming from somewhere close behind me, of flesh and spasms of gasps for air – a hungry rhythm in stark contrast to the soft ocean waves. How both sounds or songs manage to coalesce despite their obvious difference is, as of now, beyond my wildest imagination. Although I imagine these kids know, and I admire their young lust.

Full now, of desire and admiration, I softly look down at my own body as though seeing it for the first time. The salt air intoxicates me into thinking that my body belongs here naked on the beach, a quiet animal, like the ocean, that veils in magnificent secrecy the unforgiving, but not unforgivable, storms of passion that lay waiting inside.

My cock has grown against my stomach, not quite full but defying me not to reach down and release it. Just when I think I can wait no longer, the girl’s grunts become whimpers and I know full well that she has given herself completely not just to a simple fuck but to a love borne of human vulnerability and beauty, a pleasure that knows it needs more than to be satisfied – it demands honour and respect fit for a god.

At the moment I write this, the same holy water that fills her wet skin and heart and cunt surrounds me like electricity – igniting both my mind and my eyes. Some forgotten but eternal part of me moves back and forth with the waves and I long for someone to come and do for me what I dare not do for myself. I will stay here or go forward, but I will not go back.

Which brings me to why I am writing this and why today unlike most others I imagine that the beauty I feel and see and breathe all around me all my life might take the shape of a woman.

Never would I dare even think of taking the girl, now silent, behind me. Never would I dare encroach upon their privacy for a temple has risen up around them that will last until my own feelings either turn to melancholy or ecstasy, a temple more beautiful than any building on earth for the simple reason that it is undeniably to me today the source of beauty. They have made a covenant that is beyond sound and light. They have made a covenant of flesh that will last as long as the shadow of a god, as shadow made, like the soul, of earth and air, of water and fire, like Her.

How I long to see and touch my Escapade, to make this moment more that mine – to make it ours. To sit by the beach under a world as though a tree and nurture it with dirty thoughts and fantasies, stories of faeries and the magic of lust and love. And all of time would turn around us as the stars at night and we would loose the ties and tides that bind us to a past we dare not dream of much less remember.

I lay here now, my imagination wild and whirling, wondering if She would have my cock in her mouth and let me smell her, smell her and remember this filthy dream of wetness and warmth between her creamy thighs. How I would offer my tongue as a prayer of thanks for hiding some remote and secret part of her imagination (like her pussy) just for me. How she could cast a spell on my body with hers with her long red hair caressing my legs, her soft moans, my ears, her tongue and throat and hunger, my long blood engorged manhood and my tongue, my thoughts, my fantasies into her womb, my life and soul and heart and mind – become my whole world and break the spell cast upon me this day preventing me from entering that holy temple of warmth and peace with another. Her fine taught nipples, I would have them answer making 3 tongues or more upon my ocean of lust.

The sounds of her wet mouth sliding softly and methodically along my hard shaft when all she has to do is lap against the shore like the waves makes me shudder with ecstasy and fear and awe and respect. The salty brine lathering my tanned naked body and glistening in a pearl of white hot cream on the tip of my penis is all the proof I need that my feelings as my fantasies are real or could be – but do they belong to Her?

I am left wondering as the two kids leave and the spell is broken. I am so alone it could have been a dream. Does She dream of me? When She was just a girl was I there with her, like these gods, these Faeries of the beach, when She first touched herself?

finis part I

EROTICA

She lay alone in her bed. The memory of him, the feel of him lay with her like her own warm blanket. Still wet from the conversation, she could only imagine his warm breath on her mouth. She could only imagine how much he wanted to be there, in bed with her – how much he wanted to fill her aching heart and mouth and cunt with everything that was him.

Did he long for her also? Oh, to drink from his life force and hear the young Lovers laughing and uttering perennial pornography to one another beneath an aged Oak on a grassy knoll, celebrating the first dew of evening with the meeting of heat and passion that can only be first love and the fantasy of eternal youth.

His own blood engorged and swollen cockhead can scarcely imagine bathing in her ragin sea of flesh and honey dew, her tender breasts, and raw wet lips uttering odes in the incorruptible smell of love and sex, words that make the movements of sun and moon and stars turn around us and only us, her words and his.

Slowly and with great care she has fashioned this seething stew, this song of innocence and experience. See her leave him to bleed on this battlefield or another. Hear the magpie chatter or the Bluejay thrill her with song while her boat is floating him down an endless dark melodiously phantasmic river amidst the din of fluttering souls. And then a movement and a sir of warm continental wind to break the black dimensionless darkness almost seen. A single drop of sweat quivers in the warm breath of spring and her nipple answers in a song of pleasure and redemption only she can hear. Yes, he is safe now, the crone exhorts to the pale ghost in the night sky, the blank tree tops guarding his pale flesh.

He could release now into her and upon her, drowning her in her own childish fancies, but he waits and thickens at the root with each passing century of her movement in lord and illusion. See here a child and here the raw tit of pure hunger and need. See here the holy water and the milk from the water. See here the flowers gathered each month and tossed into a ship of lost souls there; the sea of death that gently floats to earth to wet the myth with the dew of little things, of friendship, and the release only the hand can find at times when come what may.

The foot is swollen now with years as well as blood – just as her own soft petals of spring. And here he is held only by her dreams and not even his own. She could bring him to the other side, make all his dreams come and come to life. He has talked like a man, and now she dares hear, his thanks in every raindrop tear.

The rain pitter pats on the leaves, steam rising from the forest earth in sheets and a young puck leans over a muddy river. He whispers to Daphne, "fuck is a very long word." She giggles like a brook and a bell rings in a tower, the joy of years heard but not seen through the pornographic film of centuries. A letter here, a story there, 6 billion earthlings in a whimper and a tear of sweat soaked in sex and pictures soaked in the blood of thoughts and, hence, dreams really come true between honey thighs and the fuck beat of ocean waves, of her soul and skin giving him everything he needs in sheets of white hot ecstasy like that which makes all space and proportion shrink and grow to a likeness and a fullness forged from the depths of being, from the songs of birds and rain and ocean waves, of words and thoughts hanging on the sacred vulva lips as though a moment has quietly passed and not surged inside the heart of wetness and heat only to become that which envelops his very soul.

So let her hand answer her prayers for now as she has answered his with his own body and the imagination, like her lust, in which it lives, a broken vessel on the shore, brought back by the same magic that sent it away and now seeding only a small palm that sways in the warm beach breeze – a tree whose name is only known by her body for her own body adorns it with the breath of life. She touches first its sunred tip which adorns with cool lips of Dawn and then from down deep where he and she were one so long ago in the evening – here and there the fires keep and oceans boil in cauldrons of gods and goddesses, the tree grows and hardens Promise of her gentle touch and firm hand. This tree is called Elysium. This tree is Athens or New York. This tree in place of nowhere and nohow, for what is in a name but so much more, for they that hold it in their hearts, a never ending shower to be locked as much inside the human heart.

This tree is love that our worlds always say, our fantasies to touch would sun and earth and moon become, forever, an unfinished tale. At Dawn, does the sun rise or do we?

Continued…

Slowly we remember hieroglyphs of flesh. Slowly we unite flesh and purpose. Slowly we create the woman and the man, the Woman and the Man.

Do you feel the hint of pride and shame brushing against your soft back? Or rolling against your chin? A lily floating on water, the soul of womyn. I want your lips, your touch your wet welcome of my warm creamy light.

Do you see what Ishtar and Innana have for you my lady? They have brought two silver trays each covered in silk.

…And the light and dark was the first body. And as the sun moves through the sky, body is a woman and a man; a woman and a woman; a man and a man; two womans and a man; two mans and a woman. And one would think that a body that will one day take your life, as it has millions and millions of others, does not engage each soul in a multiplicity of intimate engagements. She drinks you and remembers, and your name, your glistening cum covered face, is Life.

And since like the first day, life and death are made of the same flesh, dream and myth is all that makes love real. The cock is a cunt to her, and a cunt is a cock; whether the dream is asleep or awake, one dreams of the other. Body Tyrannus. Body Aphrodite. Lord of the Dance, I submit to thee and thine.

When there was only one card in the tarot, the tarot was the lovers:

The liberal and the conservative;

The jew and the gentile;

The saint and the sinner;

The ruler and the apostate;

The killer and the prey;

The father and the son;

The mother and the child;

The human and the animal;

The sun and the earth;

The sun and moon;

The moon and earth;

And upon and;

Land upon land;

Body upon body;

A bedroom made of flesh;

Osiris and Ishtar;

Lovers in the womb;

Lovers in the moon;

Lovers in the ocean tide;

Lovers in the sky so wide;

Brain

Ass

Tits

Testacles

Always two silver trays dressed in silk.

Two lovers are body in the body, body upon body.

Wrap your thoughts around me, for you spirit is the first bedroom, and it is always the first time for time the mask of lovers three, and sun and moon made out of tree, by poet, acid upon silk; create; be come; oxygen; be spirit body, be feathered soul, be the dancer of the bones; howling wolf, dancing shaman; fuck and fuck and fuck until you cry and then make love, make you…

And when the crystalline water runs freely from the cave in the mountain, then we will fashion the sacred phallus, the sacred vulva. And we shall sing songs of happiness for it is just so.

"my mother…

my father….

Follow me all around…

My mother

My father

Follow me all around…

My mother

My father

Follow me all around..

All around

All around

All around…

finis

June 8, 2001. Fraser Valley UcFvM

Free Will by Elena Blume aka ShiningSea (poet, Excite.com Poetry Café)

thoughts and ideas, waves of ebb and flow

flowing through the brain, consciousness does grow

an unknown field not electromagnetic or gravitational

but a phenomenological independence

a field affected by electrical activity within

able to modify electrical activity leaving single entity,

the conscious electromagnetic field, the Cem-field.

ephemeral our thoughts as real as radiation

as a ball hits a bat so, too, does the imagination touch a dream

and a being may manifest that dream

the kinetics of a moonlit sky

see the cool smooth purple grape, touch it, taste it round.

inertia to your mouth.

superimposition upon your thoughts

find out what it means then send it to the field.

draw a picture with your waves. make connections real.

not just speculations, friend, consciousness driving free will

driving the eagle's flight, keeping the hummingbird still

creative thoughts pulled out of a quantum multi-universe

conscious mind harnessing quantum measurement

to perform directed actions

this is free will.

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