Breast-fed
The baby is tugging the drawn white moon of Melinda
With raccoon paws tugging and grasping, clutching
Her, squeezing to get every dripping pearl
Sucking her to get every squirt
Of the silvery silky milk of her breast.
Buried
He felt buried in the deep fertile earth
like what lay out in the fields
Putting Off
I don't like this, can't sleep at night because I am hanging over a cliff. Always in a state of going, never being. I want arrival. To achieve whatever it is I must achieve, so I can relax on my having achieved, put it behind me and out of mind, and simply be at ease. I hate transition; I want to be. I hate all this striving, the putting off of my life. Will I always be putting it off and achieving? Always the damn future? I yearn to get the future behind me, so I can be alive.
Aiw
For this is what new world it is: the great force today is the mind. In the old world it was something in the body, some quick, that became degraded to merely the heart. But even then it was still something vital in the body, from which flew the deep emotive urges in a man or woman; today though even this has been lost, and the heart is merely “Have a heart!”—the rather trite kindnesses that actually are mental not bodily, not of some quick or aiw or vital physical force. So it goes. The new man, whose most vital force is mere brain-wave.
By his handiwork thou shalt know him.
Trapped Lives
It seems to me that we manage to live trapped lives. Our stress on working commits us to work that is both wasted and self-destructing, tears at our health. We make—manufacture— ourselves a thousand things that have no use except to be bought. a thousand other things that, like bugs, eat out our vital insides. And a thousand other that are simply vain. It is very stressful work, and misapplied. Meanwhile we live miserably. We bombard ourselves with entertainment for our minds, which largely are unsatiated and bored, but don't know it.
We grunt to create artificial entertainment for ourselves, whose minds have grown life-forsakenly weary as well as bored—lackadaisically old, half to dead. So we need our word games to toy with, just as old people need their crossword puzzles. It is just this bored, forceless life that produces a blind belief in heaven and God and afterlife. We need something, because earth and our own bodies which sprang of earth aren't good enough, bore us.
We manufacture our stresses and anxieties to remedy boredom. We need our frustrating cars and infuriating traffic jams in order to stimulate something in us, even if it drives us to drink. We need our newspapers and world politics as ever-changing games to play with, mentally invigorating. We don't mind if a few lose their lives in the playing: so long as it makes balm for the remainder.
Always we are making things, being little individual gods, with a little self-worship thrown about: nothing extensive. We like our modesty.
And its rather fun to be busy all the time with new constructions; if not new things then new laws and rules; or new mental experiences to “experience”. It's rather fun, a fun life. At least its not boring. And not embarrassing, which might be worse. Embarrassed, made fun of, ridiculed by the minds of other people: that's simply devastating.
Balls cut off
I sat out on the porch on the street-front, seeing the cars run and gun like stones whipped about on high-tensed rubber bands. Modern man, he's had his balls cut off, and wails about in a high-pitched frenzy. Like a squealing piglet, ball-less and frantic!
There is something ball-less about men who go squealing about with their high-pitched ideas and plans, so engrossed in their little mental worlds, their newspapers and their organizations. Life is a Monopoly Game.
Bronzy naked
He became aware that he was beside her, naked, and she was a bronzy naked, near each other, doting over each other: and he was not in the slightest aroused. It was a good feeling. To feel perfectly at ease with her and unaroused. Unabashedly naked; but also unerotically so. It made him feel homey. His penis soft and flowerly like a little bud. So at ease.
But it wasn't lasting. He began to stir up, take on size. For he had become conscious of his own nakedness and of her soft bronze shoulders and naked thighs, like some sleek animal of the forest. Up surged his penis into bone, up, and the great roused wakening slipped through him.
theNakedAtheist 