Author Information
Landscape Gardener
Soft hands worn red and streaked with dirt, wet with nitrile sweat and rain. Working Woman's hands. The last remnants of black nail polish on fingertips I want to hold and weed my garden. All this shit of mine has grown over. A silent and solitary place, long neglected, is a beautiful thing. Full of secrets. Death in its black radiance and splendor. Life persists with no human hands. But it needs these hands to be a garden again. Brown turns to green. Nighttime finally cracks dawn and the forecast is good. Golden sun and silver showers make the rhodos bloom and every day in the morning I wake up and think of...
Sun-seared skin, chapped lips on a piece of fruit. And not to be rude but her ass is heaven's own plum, made in the image of the Goddess and straining against the fabric of space-time like a pair of black balloons rubbing together but making no sound. It's May again and the electrical blond wind blows the top of my head off, as it gusts from her hair and supersaturates the atmosphere around me with the smell of brown sugar on honey – not unlike the country colour of her skin where it's exposed. And Power! Hard muscles and firm shapes under a liquid layer. Nature's energy made flesh. All the earth's thrumming and vibrating in one woman's body. Laugh like a spark and smile like a solar flare leaving sunspots on my soul and leaving me...
...harder than hard from some dream spirit quest or other. It takes a moment to recover. I never remember them, except it's always a path, winding high up a misted mountain top. Danger. And Women. Just an energy that vibrates across my synapses, blesses my ego let lose in it's playground and makes my dick hard. A place I've been to before but somehow didn't appreciate it then for what it was. Harder than it could ever get for anyone who's seen me naked in all these years since. Pure like nature. I eat dirt. Spend most days on my knees, worshiping.
