SouthernComfort77's blog: "Just a few words..."

You're an Passionate Kisser

For you, kissing is about all about following your urges If someone's hot, you'll go in for the kiss - end of story You can keep any relationship hot with your steamy kisses A total spark plug - your kisses are bound to get you in trouble

A Cloak for the Lord of Cats They say I bathe in blood, the fools; they do not ask about the bones. Embraced by arms of light from the Süleyman's East, translucent white, I entreat the clouds and the Lord of Cats. And when the lynx of darkling hills presses away day's warmth, I then beseech the Trinity, whose music, floating and certain, haunts the village. It is Ilona's voice. I would devour it. I wish to slip inside the glove of her body, singing my prayers to the night and the morning and the day of change and documents and distant, ugly death. Erzsébet, countess, signing and sealing in four languages while the sun courses over Castle Cséjthe, I am mother. I am lover. And wife to an absent warrior. The seasons on this searching mountain, the stays in Sárvár, Beckov and Keresztur, the days even in Vienna, are seldom punctuated by the discoveries of childhood, in the stead of which is the detritus of war. Now, surrounded by drools, I husband my knowledge for the nights, when moon and cloud and febrile blood shall mingle. It is not forbidden, a living, dying cloak, I do not believe, so I call for her, and in honor and obedience, she arrives, a plain shell I have seen, but a geode unlike the others. Ilona, who in the village sings of the Trinity, Ilona, of no moment but melody, Ilona? I am clean for her, pale white softened, and rounded more so by the night cat’s torches. A bath awaits me when I have tasted her voice. Then shall I sing beyond the documents, chant beyond death, blowing clean a path for the children of my flesh. Her voice is shy, rural but neither coarse, speaking not with throat of angels. There is peasantry, and I can taste its dung-smell. Hunger for the song grows behind my eyes. She reddens, eyes shunning my parted mouth, blackness against my pale luminence.She feels me silently striving to inhale her music, and I know it. Metal reflects the torches, whiteness, and trembling. The kept nightingale sings dropping notes, Ilona. Deference, obeisance, it is not the human Psalter of Trinity. I cannot draw it, I whiten, she darkens, Ilona. Sing to me; sing to me, to me sing. The puncture gives no pleasure. Aside from its exhalation of warmth, the blood sickens me. Stains ornament, and then soak, the gentle folds of my garment. Another will fail to bring it clean tomorrow, again. It drops. I am wet, streaked, straining to be within her. To be Ilona singing. This is not the voice, Ilona, though I am fitting your soulless, crimson cloak around my whiteness. To wear it is not forbidden, I do not believe, but perhaps the cracked tablets of the prophet commanded more before they shattered. Did they, Ilona, as you now? I bathe again. A bridled falcon shifts on its perch. Tomorrow, when the Lord of Cats sleeps, still I will not sing. And they will not ask. Countess Erzsébet Báthory died in 1614, accused of the death of hundreds of women, including Ilona Harczy, soprano in the village church. Báthory gave birth to a vampire legend.

Velvet Dreams I remember when the safest place at night was in my bed but I am far from safe from the dreams that fill my head. With my unconscious mind vulnerable to forces unknown, you effortlessly enter and take control when I'm alone. I have never known the extent of the powers you possessed, but now I wake, night after night, mystified and breathless. Even moments ago, I was at the brink of a peaceful sleep, nearly absorbed in dreams; secrets I thought were mine to keep. I felt your presence once again as soon as sleep found me, you can enter my dreams and subconscious thoughts so easily, making my mind think of things I never would have thought before, erotic dreams, acts of lust, our clothes crumpled on the floor. I can smell the perfume of desire lacing the night's fragrant air, your fingers sensuously brushing my neck as they run through my hair. Even in my sleep, I can feel your breathtaking touch and see the magnetism in your eyes, the reality of it is too much. You pull my body to yours, our lips fervently meeting, carnal craving boiling, a raging hunger overheating. Clinging to each other, not wanting to break the embrace, enthralled by the moonlight dancing on your face. Held by the enchanting spell of a long awaited kiss, swallowed by a dream, lost in your passion's abyss. But in moments I'll be waking and you know you need to go. Everything is fading slowly, the sunlight peeks though my window. In a desperate attempt I cling to you, our hearts align, and my soul fuses with yours, leaving my body behind. For that one single moment I am lost within you, with a welcoming embrace, you hold onto me too. But reality is calling me, drawing me away. and though I want to, I know I cannot stay. With outstretched arms I fell through blackness with great speed, I awoke with a start, my body glistening with sweat beads. Disoriented, I opened my eyes...I was in my bed. But I knew that moment ago, I was somewhere else instead. I didn't know where I was, why, or even how. But I know that you were there with me, this I avow. Even in the mornings light I can wholly recall your voice... your touch... but were you really there at all? The loneliness of desire surpasses my velvety dreams, I'll never be happy until you're lying here with me. All I have to hold onto are fantasies, it's not fair. What are dreams worth if you're not really there?