Love Letter, Love Letter

This was my entry in The Walrus Magazine's Love Letter contest held earlier this year. Though I certainly didn't win, I'm entertained by my entry and I thought there might be a couple other people out there who possibly would be, too. So, here it is. I mean, what's not to love about VERTICAL TEXT, right?! Also, there are almost 30 flower names hidden in there; some are obvious, others not so much. See if you can find them all!!! And do try to enjoy.




Beloved G—

You urged me, you said “Forget me not,” you sighed and embraced me and I said,
Overcome by your suggestion (overcome and my love lying bleeding), “Forget you?
Unthinkable; unimaginable. Never.” To this I now need to add, behind written word:

As you entered my life so did my love for you blossom; you lifted me and secured me; I
Rose, opening, to you, to Helios’ trope. You are potent, illecebrous; your beauty,
Enchanting, as still beats on my bleeding heart, steals my breath, roots me, grounds me.

The sunflower follows the sun’s passage; the planets in the cosmos chart their
Heliolatrous revolutions. So I follow you, so I find you in the centre of my life, an
Eternally present ache in the sea of my yearning for your wished area. You daze me.

Feelings of bliss course through me when I kiss your two lips of violet ardour; a bliss so
Lush, so deeplyrooted and as high as enthralling memories and moments and memories
Of you and me and you and especially us. Memories that circle and hold close, clutch,
Whisper their married, golden truths and splendours to me; moments which, in their
Eager impatience, leave me breathless, render me silent, force me to my knees in
Reverential obeisance, leaving me wishing I could speak, wishing I could convey to you
In unguarded words, what I feel. Alone in these thoughts, I watch the zephyr and these
Nimble leaves it caresses and remember the spring of us and the ringing blue bells: our
Greedy passion.

Our greedy passion is alive and alight; is engrossing, engraved in us; honeyed, suckling:
For our love flowers on, nurtured in the rich soil that is you, that is me, that is us.

My heart, my mind, my very being yearn to be near you, to twine with you, to vine with
You; to sublimate myself in your core—we obsess over our union.

Perhaps I strive too loftily in my words, perhaps I should laugh or kid, turn from the
Austere, free the absolute sense of my words; but weight is my write and, to me, this is a
Serious, solemn serenade—my paean we can sing together. In all my sense, in all the
Science of my words, I never forget, I never diminish the simplicity, the purity of us:
I love the times when we lie locked together, you in your morning glory, I in lupine
Overindulgence, united in comfort—a marred and thus sweet peace. This simple unity of
Notion, intention and selves suffuses—IS—our essence and we are our all.

In the blossom of eternal love,
D—

Three things

Three little nonsense pieces. Made as little experiments, as little anecdotes intended, for the most part, to entertain myself. I hope they entertain you, too.

Feel free to comment on these pieces, of course.

A Whale of a Tale

I was hanging out on a whale once. With 3 codfish, 6 shrimp, 2 starfish and 26 sea anemones. I don't think any of us could really be blamed for what happened. See, we had squeezed the toxins out of 162 jelly fish, and had been shooting it straight up like heroin. You should have seen the starfish! One of them grabbed the smallest of the sea anemones, and stuck it on its top spike. The poor anemone died on the spot, but the starfish didn't care by then. He was dancing around, all tipsy, trying to seduce a couple of the other anemones. With their sister impaled on his spike, they were quite cold to him, pushed him around and whatnot. Eventually, he was dancing by himself on the whale's tail and just sort of passed out after a while. The other starfish wasn't quite as looped, so he dragged the limp body of his bro off to the whale tank's filter, and got everything sorted out.
Anyway, the shrimp thought it'd be pretty funny if they all snuck inside the asshole of the biggest codfish. She was none too impressed, and shat them out after eating the smallest codfish. The poor shrimp all suffocated on the spot. The big mama codfish choked on the bones of the smallest codfish and died. The remaining codfish didn't like the vibes at the party so he waved and swam off, jumped out of the whale tank, and landed in the janitor's bucket. He finally had himself a good supper, the poor old fella.
So, all that were left now were me, 25 of the sea anemones and the whale. We started chatting, and one of the anemones pointed to the blow hole and, as I mentioned earlier, I couldn't resist such an opportunity. Five of the anemones volunteered to line the blow hole when they saw the expression on my face upon first rubbing the rim of the hole. It was chapped - rough, cracked and dry (from the salt water, I assume). I thanked them for their kindness and stuffed them in. The rest of the anemones pretended to be candles and set themselves up in a circle around me. I think because of their reaction to the jellyfish toxin, they were projecting this wicked phosphorescence, which really set the mood.
I pulled myself out and set to work on the blow hole (the anemones in there were very accommodating with their filigreed and soft tentacles). Apparently, the whale had been asleep. And, apparently, thrusting into its blow hole is a sure way to wake it up, though not a good way. It gets kind of panicky. It started swimming pretty fast - this only got me more heated up and excited, so it didn't really work in the whale's favour. Until it dived under the surface. I wasn't ready for that, and pulled in a couple lungsful of salt water. Unfortunately, the whale's next plan was to jump. It came out of the water, me still on its back, and twisted in the air. I was thrown off its back, the stuffing anemones clinging to my cock and a couple of the candle ones were holding on to my chest hair. They were screaming, I was screaming, the whale was screaming - it was a pretty loud scene.
The security crew arrived just in time to see me land in the nearby cactus display. Yeah. That wasn't fun at all. A couple of the anemones were kind enough to help me pull out some of the quills which were just out of my reach. After we got all the quills out of my back and ass, I was escorted out of Sea World by the security crew. They didn't even let me take the anemones which were still holding on tightly to my nether regions with me. They, quite cruelly, pulled them off. The anemones didn't want to go, so it definitely hurt to have them removed. So did peeing for the next week or so.
Worst of all, Sea World blamed everything on me! I told them it was the starfish's idea to get trashed on the jellyfish toxin, but they would have none of that. The starfish had actually snuck off by this time, so my story looked pretty baseless.
Anyway, as punishment, they took away my marine biology degree, and I've been banned from all water, including puddles and showers. I've had to take up bathing in milk, which is all right sometimes, but the cows I choose (a different one each day!) don't always enjoy me cleaning myself under them. I've been stepped on a few times, but I think my skills are improving - they don't seem to mind my hands as much anymore. I'm gettin' by, I suppose.

Rain in Novomoskovsk

It was just another November afternoon in Novomoskovsk. Grey clouds hung heavily and lowly, their stomachs scraping and sliding across the steeples of the Sviatotroitsky Cathedral. The steeples ripped the clouds open and the clouds loosed their rains upon me. I hurried toward the cathedral, stepped up onto the stone stairway and pulled open the heavy wooden doors. I was instantly blinded by the gleaming opulence of that so orthodox of altars. Someone (I assume it was the priest) spoke to me anxiously and I turned toward the voice. Fortunately, I had been taught Russian by an Emperor Penguin during my sojourn in Antarctica (I was there overseeing a government-sponsored crew of scientists who were intent on discovering a method to keep the ice caps from melting by using solar powered fans to generate cold air. They were failing miserably—several had been abducted by polar bears to be their wives—and morale was low. The penguin’s accent was impeccable; apparently, she had spent some time in a zoo in Saint Petersburg and had been befriended by a KGB agent who had been working undercover as a sea lion.).
Though our dialects were distinctly of differing regions, the priest and I could understand each other well enough to communicate. After explaining my problem to him, he let me know that he was the owner of a Russian Spaniel named Fedya, and that he had been trained as a seeing-eye dog. He offered Fedya’s services to me, for which I thanked him profusely, and he ran off to grab the dog’s harness—as he exited the nave I listened to his ungainly step reverberate throughout the empty cathedral: CLIP-clop-clop-CLIP-clop-clop-CLIP-clop-clop.
“THREE?! WHY THREE?!” I yelled after him. In response, I heard a high-pitched squeal followed by a thick, low hum, then the CLIP-clop-clop-CLIP-clop-clop-CLIP-clop-clop grew as he returned, with Fedya panting at his side. The priest handed me the dog’s harness; his fingers were long tendrils which, for just a moment, wrapped around my wrist. A jolt shook my body and I tried to run; I couldn’t move at all. The dog let out a sound that was peculiarly similar to a laugh. The priest reached out and laid his “hand” on my chest. The tips of each of his fingers had a small concavity, rimmed with a soft, thin piece of flesh. Where the centre of the concavities lay against my chest, I felt seven pinpricks. After this first moment of pain, I felt flashes of light pass through me. I let out a low moan and heard the dog yipping beside me. The yipping was replaced by a noise very much like the one I had made, and then I felt the dog’s head, rubbing between my legs as he started licking my balls. I tried to push him away, but I still couldn’t move.
From this, I remember falling, and the sound of the priest squealing in pleasure and the dog’s heavy breathing slowly becoming dimmer. When I awoke, I could see again, but I lacked pants and underwear. I could also move again. I pulled off my t-shirt and stuck a leg through each of the arm-holes. I smiled at my swiftness of thought, but then looked down. My cock and balls were hanging down through the neck hole of the shirt. I bundled up the loose folds of the t-shirt above its shoulders and wrapped my belt (which, for some reason, had been left behind) around this bundle and cinched it tightly. Walking toward the heavy wooden doors of the church, I passed a piece of shimmering glass, which threw my reflexion back at me; I looked very little like the fellow who had entered the cathedral: my hair was long and dirty and I had a long, scraggly beard, hanging down past my collar bones. Also, I had a large lump in the middle of my chest. I looked down, and saw the lump writhe slightly. Seven long tendrils, fine as hairs, grew suddenly from my chest, and gathered together. In one motion, they slid from the height of my nipples down to my belly button, opening a thin line in my skin. Out fell a little creature. I shot my hand out and caught it and brought it up closer to my face to examine it more carefully. Its hands each had seven long, tendril-like fingers, it had three legs, the middle one slightly shorter than the outside two. Its body was covered in white fur, which was mixed with several large black patches and streaked with dark speckles. It had a tail, also covered in black fur. But it had my nose.

Thumbs

His right thumbnail was chipped and jagged, cut short by nervous assaults of his teeth. The flesh around the heel of the nail was split, and a diluted mixture of blood and pus occasionally trickled down his thumb, toward the deep-set lines scarred over his knuckle. A small patch of long white hairs curled out from the soft, meaty space between thumb and fore-finger. His fingers were long—longer than his palm, even—and patches of white hair curled on these fingers, save for the middle. On this finger, a long scar—not quite fresh enough to bleed, but fresh enough to still ache and throb—which stretched from knuckle to knuckle, had scraped off all the hair. The nails on these fingers were in much the same condition as that of the thumb. The left hand was identical, save for the lack of scarring on his middle finger, and for the lack of ring finger. It was missing from about the same point as where the ring is worn. This injury, though, was old. He still remembered the day it happened, and as he sat there, he rubbed the stump, and watched the event of that day spread open before his mind’s eye. Saw the door falling, the rock which would act as anvil to the door’s hammer, and heard the crunching, felt the almost burning pain race through his hand, up his arm where it stopped, leaving a chilling numbness in his hand.
He leaned back in the small wooden chair he was seated in and took a deep breath. He was then doubled over as a fit of coughing tore through his slight, worn frame; ran the back of his rough hand across his lips, and spit on the dusty floor. The spit was thick and red. A large beetle scuttled to the spit, clambered on top of it, and examined it, questing for any sustenance it could find. The man watched disinterestedly from behind thick bi-focal lens glasses and muttered to himself as a slight cough passed through him, setting his form quivering again. He laced his remaining fingers together and squeezed his hands tightly; knuckles glowed white in the gloom of the dank room, and the scar on his middle finger opened again. Blood oozed slowly, as though wakened from a profound sleep, and coursed between his fingers and into the cracks of the dry, aged hands. Sniffling, he loosened his clutch on his hands enough that his thumbs were freed from their tight chains. Slowly at first, as though testing his old, weary joints, he spiralled his thumbs, first right over left, then left over right, and repeated the process, faster with each passing spiral. As he increased the speed of his motions, a sob shook his shoulders; a tear trickled down his cheek, crossed his nose and dropped off its tip, landing on his middle finger, on the scar; the blood mingled with his tear and coursed, diluted, more quickly across his entwined fingers.
He continued, spiral upon spiral; continued as he waited. Waited for the body lying at his feet to cease convulsing.