Listenin' to Carlos
It’s been quite the night.
Mind drifts from feral dogs to pert nipples and glistening thighs.
I can’t help myself. The sun waxed hot. Temperature well into the 80’s under languid sky. Windows thrown open, inviting, long after midnight. I hear wild dogs howlin’. I hear Rob and Carlos. Pelvis responds to stimulus.
My mind drifts to tattooed flesh, that Greek goddess who made me lose my breath and choke, so juvenile, on garbled words.
A night like this demands hip-on-hip. Fingers thrumming on taut skin (congas or otherwise). Bone pulverizing bone. Rivulets of salt on scratched and bloodied fevered back.
Oh, to move smooth! To be a brute. To lose oneself in music, soul and sweat!
Yeah.
It’s just that kinda night.
* * *
posted by Jonas | 4/15/2010 12:38:00 AM
8 Comments:
"...of skin stretched tight across a thigh."
line from a poem my high school wild guy wrote...
and then there's
Dylan Thomas
Light breaks where no sun shines;
Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart
Push in their tides;
And, broken ghosts with glow-worms in their heads,
The things of light
File through the flesh where no flesh decks the bones.
A candle in the thighs
Warms youth and seed and burns the seeds of age;
Where no seed stirs,
The fruit of man unwrinkles in the stars,
Bright as a fig;
Where no wax is, the candle shows its hairs.
Dawn breaks behind the eyes;
From poles of skull and toe the windy blood
Slides like a sea;
Nor fenced, nor staked, the gushers of the sky
Spout to the rod
Divining in a smile the oil of tears.
Night in the sockets rounds,
Like some pitch moon, the limit of the globes;
Day lights the bone;
Where no cold is, the skinning gales unpin
The winter's robes;
The film of spring is hanging from the lids.
Light breaks on secret lots,
On tips of thought where thoughts smell in the rain;
When logics dies,
The secret of the soil grows through the eye,
And blood jumps in the sun;
Above the waste allotments the dawn halts.
Dylan Thomas surely possessed the words that could twist and turn the soul.
I envy him his magic.
P.S., Everyone deserves/needs a high school wild guy/gal...no matter how many tears flow afterwards.
Love the song and heat seems to do something to people, exposes us I think, not only physically but emotionally as well.
Oh this song, this song...ain't just the hips. No, it's a guteral response to a primal need. There can be no equivalent sound track to such a night.
"Give me your heart, make it real
Or else forget about it!"
and she swaggers off....
Hi Jonas
I'm new to your blog, and taken by your way with words. I'm not so keen on feral dogs myself - too terrifying - but I love this music.
I look forward to visiting again and reading more.
Mr. Santana certainly knows how to get me moving.
It's a shame you were alone (am assuming, of course).
Yes, Deb, heat can make all the difference. Heat leads to disrobement. Heat leads to sweat. Sweat leads to...
Annie: "There can be no equivalent sound track to such a night."
Well, I'm not so sure. Consider THIS.
Hello, Elisabeth! Welcome. I dropped by your blog and found you've been most prolific (with quite a following!). Methinks I've got a whole lotta reading to do. You're welcome to drop by any time and stay a spell.
Yes, Anna, it was a shame I was alone. My shame.
That is Sanatana's best, in my opinion. He did a lot of good stuff early on, but nothing to compare to that. I'm thinking that it was a product of having lived some.
I had an interesting reaction to the video, which I'll tell you sometime.
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