The thing about being a sex chaser and grief-bearer is that one is susceptible to rejection. But the good news of this modern world is that there is always a fresh crop of rejecters around the on-line corner to keep you on your sexy, metaphysical toes, and erotic emailing, as I’ve discovered can cure sexual woes.
Secrets, blood, fire, fuel this perverted desire. I raised my eyes to Toronto’s unclear skies and conjured your butch thighs. I hardly know you but you mated with my muse just as we mused on our mutual love of Joan D’Arc. I believe that all love is made up of a thousand different subtleties and now I send love soaring with my words. Sometimes, however ephemeral, emotional love angst is just another medium to add to the canvass of consciousness, which is what I do here, for you, as a parting gift.
Pleasure in woman is such a magic spell, the true joy of life worth the risk of rejection. Besides, some rejecters are a fantastic artistic feed, especially when they embody those hockey and/or horse riding thighs, thighs that could crush a mini cooper. Thank-you Mother. As I walked and thought about my current rejecter—how sexy she is, I felt her radiating down the hilly bluff road. It’s true I am a wanton whore for words to woo her right now, but I do sometimes see with clarity how I signed up for this destiny. Other times I just fall sweetly. Ah, masochism…hmmm. Danger pleasures is what I share with other Orphan Spirits, and it’s okay, but we have to share it with consideration and contemplation. We must always be compassionate to ourselves.
We orphans, waifs, whores, grief bearers and the like have such a big job to do, alchemizing so much grief and turning it into gold. Childhood should not feel like the eternal roughness it can be, but it still does. It must be shared to begin the nascent percolation to sex and/or to love the pain away. I don’t think sex was intended to protrude into so much of our lives, but it did because of control. You couldn’t get the masses to do what you wanted unless you controlled the crotch and they most certainly did and we all have been victimized by it. Enslavement isn’t only with the chains we see but finally at last we are breaking free. It has been deemed by the Almighty Mother—I take no direction from any other. She rewards me with the poetic insights that flow from cannabis. Oh cannabis, our home and native plant…Me, sex and cannabis have a role to play in the green revolution, which is exciting, since I am so fond of the French one. I’ll have to design my fetish gear in French Revolution style, minus the hat and frills out front, but definitely accentuate the boots. My blue/green jacket would be made of hemp, of course, likely not unlike the original.
I go to the water to feel what is real because the water floats away my memories so I no longer have to deal with how they feel—empty it in The 4th River Orphan Spirits! I am not just a sex toy, although it sure can be fun to be one. I am not just a collector of metaphysical curiosities—though what a journey I have been on. This waif comes with a warning label: she bends trickery with romanticism and will lead you to the cannabis-induced mud dance for sexual healing by erotic emailing. However, this is also what the waif knows about transmutation into gold: Sometimes I do feel lonely in this life of lesbian writer = marginalization x 2. Instead of denying it, I try to sit with it and say, it’s just being human, it’s okay. The more this awareness and kindness towards my self settles in, the stronger and better I become.
To be the change agents we’ve been waiting for, we should reinvent our sensuality, creativity, and mingle both in our developments, including economic ones. My sighing heart holds something meaningful in all of it; the dance must take on a fearless wend for those who try to understand. The following landscape is a statement on my soul:
So, soothe your self as I am inclined to do with an image of layers of muddy life forming, noisome vapours, alchemizing, steaming, transforming a ring of smoldering ashes. When I am there, I usually first remind myself, ‘oh Scorpio, you definitely crawled out of the dark side of the pond, you kinky creature. It’s a good thing you have hairy, spindly legs to do your dance around alchemical vapors. Come on, Scorpio, you know you can’t help yourself, go ahead, do your famed two step’: Sex and death, sex and death, why contemplate other stuff, when these two lay you to rest? Appease your inner addictions, yield instead of deny, the rewards of awareness are awareness. Sometimes my sex leads the dance to mock and tease Death, taunting her a little: ‘Death, you’re so pedestrian, such a random peon—you have no respect for order—I am not afraid of your power.’ Death then rises up out of vapor and sucks sex in close to steam her cunty soul. Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle, inner thighs moisten and drizzle. ‘Sex, my sweaty little darling one, sometimes you are just a bitch with a silly itch. I am the one, the penultimate submission, for which all must come, indeed succumb, ya, ya.—there’s no one who gets it more than me.’ This steamy mingling always gets the better of sex and she begins to liquefy in Death’s lust becoming so hot she must cool off, however hard and wet.
Luckily, there are always sex creatures on the horizon: Taurus’s, Virgos, Libras, Leo’s, Gemini’s, Cancer’s, all of course, potential rejecters, but still they flash their irresistible dance cards, and the call for sex to cool down, calm one self, cannot be ignored. When someone offers their body, it must be considered sacred. When ambrosia flows through both sets of glands and nectar is released from restraining thighs, such golden and silvery light rays settle down unsettling thoughts, finally. Ah, and then sex with cannabis is such a great mix—it ameliorates the historical fix—and we are becoming unfixed.
Death knows life has been cruel to women and she wants the dance to be honoured with how women have survived. Her vaporous fumes are the creative drive. Sometimes she rubs on a sensitive nub and a hairy sting medicates and predicates. Death is the Queen of romance and eventually she puts you to rest, so why not become less afraid of her in the romance dance? She wants you to know that life is much greater than mere chance. The Queen of pleasure does not abstain; rather she detains the pleasure and makes art of it every day.
When sex is a safe distance from the hot liquid she turns to Death now masquerading wispy and weakened missing sex so sublime. She loves my sex because my sex is not afraid, and it’s always hard to let a good girl go—this is I truly know. ‘Til next time Death, as I must cool off in the cannabis mud and rejuvenate, escalate my light, gain insight into my plight. I don’t know why so many are so afraid of you—you really are muddily sweet in all that heat.’ Death always gets the last line: ‘It is you who chooses to look at life through muddy ashen lenses, and I know it is good, because I chose that you would SEE, so remember my sweet sex, it is the greatest spiritual privilege to have a dance with me—now let go and believe. I’ll be waiting for you lover girl—you’re my special one.’ My sex knows Death says this to all her girls, but still, a craving is quenched in hearing it so.
Such a dance always leaves one feeling present, at last. When you are present, when your attention is fully in the now, that presence will flow into and transform what you do. There will be quality and power in it, but you must at least become friendly with the present moment, even before you can enter the dance. Cooling off in a lover’s contemplation with having sex feels good, so I say to myself, ‘make love as though it is your last day alive. Love a woman deeply because you want to stop time for love not because you want to be remembered as a good lover.’ Wanting to be remembered is a shallow grave, be brave and heal.
Even if you cannot be sexually present as such is a women’s challenge, know that you are infinity, that you were forged in the stars long ago and that the Almighty Mother will bring you home to her eventually, but in the meantime, make the world better with better love and sex.
Baste in the cannabis mud and remove the abusive crud. When the moon passes over Scorpio muddied waters, you can heal childhood trauma wounds. Transform the grief your bear into your gift. She/he who is reborn in imagination discovers the latent forces of nature. Beget a new star and heaven within the alchemical cannabis mud and transmute all that interferes with your infinity. Remember, energy follows thought. Be vigilant about ending oppression, but also be vigilant about not submitting to oppressive thought patterns. Heel, feel and sexually heal.
One of the great skills that come from the dance is to transform words that have caused deep hurt, words such as ‘cunt’. The oppressive slave makers and haters of women loaded this word with their germ and their sperm, but it just so happens to be my humble fate (given to me as a gift from Death) to be a word transformer and lucky for me, ‘cunt’ is the greatest mystery of them all, which is why I must love and plunge her deeply to be a true transforming agent for golden change. I take my work seriously in this erotic emailing game—this is one from She who inspired much of this transmutation:
Where ever the wild mare cunt wants it, she will be indulged. Can a she-wolf/waif break a mare? Hmmm. Well, no doubt, it is a deep and holy challenge, and one must rely on internal and external resources to mount this sermon. One must rely on planetary alignment and communing with the female spirits. The she-wolf/waif requires this: several probing emails to learn more, to build up, to make the wild mare cunt weak with words, because if the she-wolf/waif has lived to see proof of anything biblical, it is this--the word is INDEED mightier than the sword. This is hard for a wild mare cunt to believe, especially she who loves to look at her foe in the glint of her sword; she who is aroused when hearing her sword clashing and scraping violently up against another; she who is sated when plunging her sword into flesh, but so sad when the game is over, or is it a sadness that comes with the false belief of conquering? Beloved Joan knew that when you removed the ‘s’ you had the ‘word’. Because of her steely ways, the wild mare cunt is a truth-seeker, not so unlike the she-wolf/waif. Obviously, she is finally ready to acquiesce, to accept the she-wolf/waif for who she really is--medicine for wild mare cunt--and the sooner the better.
I swear the Mother puts them all on my path to ensnare but also to share, and look at the creativity it did bear. I am lifted with erotically composed emails but when you’re a sex chaser like me, you have to have a healthy dollop of resistance for rejection—it gets those sex molecules bristling for another dance, to transmute more desire into more good. When we engage in sexual love and healing by erotic emailing, we can have the best conversations ever. Engage in the conspiracy of hope for better love Orphan Spirits and take an oath to transmute your grief into a gift, remain ever mindful knowing the Almighty Mother conspires tirelessly in our favour.
No matter how many times you get rejected Orphan Spirits, never stop believing in romance. Live the love you dream and speak well of love in your head and heart. Whatever heavy energy you bear, swoosh it in The 4th River.
See more about hemp cannabis products for development on website, www.thehempfactory.com Interested in developing alchemical cannabis mud and other hemp/cannabis based products—if so contact: lorettahempfactory@sympatico.ca LOOKING TO DEVELOP A FORMULA FOR EROTIC EMAILING TO ENHANCE SEX: if interested, same email address. Loretta Clark
Secrets, blood, fire, fuel this perverted desire. I raised my eyes to Toronto’s unclear skies and conjured your butch thighs. I hardly know you but you mated with my muse just as we mused on our mutual love of Joan D’Arc. I believe that all love is made up of a thousand different subtleties and now I send love soaring with my words. Sometimes, however ephemeral, emotional love angst is just another medium to add to the canvass of consciousness, which is what I do here, for you, as a parting gift.
Pleasure in woman is such a magic spell, the true joy of life worth the risk of rejection. Besides, some rejecters are a fantastic artistic feed, especially when they embody those hockey and/or horse riding thighs, thighs that could crush a mini cooper. Thank-you Mother. As I walked and thought about my current rejecter—how sexy she is, I felt her radiating down the hilly bluff road. It’s true I am a wanton whore for words to woo her right now, but I do sometimes see with clarity how I signed up for this destiny. Other times I just fall sweetly. Ah, masochism…hmmm. Danger pleasures is what I share with other Orphan Spirits, and it’s okay, but we have to share it with consideration and contemplation. We must always be compassionate to ourselves.
We orphans, waifs, whores, grief bearers and the like have such a big job to do, alchemizing so much grief and turning it into gold. Childhood should not feel like the eternal roughness it can be, but it still does. It must be shared to begin the nascent percolation to sex and/or to love the pain away. I don’t think sex was intended to protrude into so much of our lives, but it did because of control. You couldn’t get the masses to do what you wanted unless you controlled the crotch and they most certainly did and we all have been victimized by it. Enslavement isn’t only with the chains we see but finally at last we are breaking free. It has been deemed by the Almighty Mother—I take no direction from any other. She rewards me with the poetic insights that flow from cannabis. Oh cannabis, our home and native plant…Me, sex and cannabis have a role to play in the green revolution, which is exciting, since I am so fond of the French one. I’ll have to design my fetish gear in French Revolution style, minus the hat and frills out front, but definitely accentuate the boots. My blue/green jacket would be made of hemp, of course, likely not unlike the original.
I go to the water to feel what is real because the water floats away my memories so I no longer have to deal with how they feel—empty it in The 4th River Orphan Spirits! I am not just a sex toy, although it sure can be fun to be one. I am not just a collector of metaphysical curiosities—though what a journey I have been on. This waif comes with a warning label: she bends trickery with romanticism and will lead you to the cannabis-induced mud dance for sexual healing by erotic emailing. However, this is also what the waif knows about transmutation into gold: Sometimes I do feel lonely in this life of lesbian writer = marginalization x 2. Instead of denying it, I try to sit with it and say, it’s just being human, it’s okay. The more this awareness and kindness towards my self settles in, the stronger and better I become.
To be the change agents we’ve been waiting for, we should reinvent our sensuality, creativity, and mingle both in our developments, including economic ones. My sighing heart holds something meaningful in all of it; the dance must take on a fearless wend for those who try to understand. The following landscape is a statement on my soul:
So, soothe your self as I am inclined to do with an image of layers of muddy life forming, noisome vapours, alchemizing, steaming, transforming a ring of smoldering ashes. When I am there, I usually first remind myself, ‘oh Scorpio, you definitely crawled out of the dark side of the pond, you kinky creature. It’s a good thing you have hairy, spindly legs to do your dance around alchemical vapors. Come on, Scorpio, you know you can’t help yourself, go ahead, do your famed two step’: Sex and death, sex and death, why contemplate other stuff, when these two lay you to rest? Appease your inner addictions, yield instead of deny, the rewards of awareness are awareness. Sometimes my sex leads the dance to mock and tease Death, taunting her a little: ‘Death, you’re so pedestrian, such a random peon—you have no respect for order—I am not afraid of your power.’ Death then rises up out of vapor and sucks sex in close to steam her cunty soul. Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle, inner thighs moisten and drizzle. ‘Sex, my sweaty little darling one, sometimes you are just a bitch with a silly itch. I am the one, the penultimate submission, for which all must come, indeed succumb, ya, ya.—there’s no one who gets it more than me.’ This steamy mingling always gets the better of sex and she begins to liquefy in Death’s lust becoming so hot she must cool off, however hard and wet.
Luckily, there are always sex creatures on the horizon: Taurus’s, Virgos, Libras, Leo’s, Gemini’s, Cancer’s, all of course, potential rejecters, but still they flash their irresistible dance cards, and the call for sex to cool down, calm one self, cannot be ignored. When someone offers their body, it must be considered sacred. When ambrosia flows through both sets of glands and nectar is released from restraining thighs, such golden and silvery light rays settle down unsettling thoughts, finally. Ah, and then sex with cannabis is such a great mix—it ameliorates the historical fix—and we are becoming unfixed.
Death knows life has been cruel to women and she wants the dance to be honoured with how women have survived. Her vaporous fumes are the creative drive. Sometimes she rubs on a sensitive nub and a hairy sting medicates and predicates. Death is the Queen of romance and eventually she puts you to rest, so why not become less afraid of her in the romance dance? She wants you to know that life is much greater than mere chance. The Queen of pleasure does not abstain; rather she detains the pleasure and makes art of it every day.
When sex is a safe distance from the hot liquid she turns to Death now masquerading wispy and weakened missing sex so sublime. She loves my sex because my sex is not afraid, and it’s always hard to let a good girl go—this is I truly know. ‘Til next time Death, as I must cool off in the cannabis mud and rejuvenate, escalate my light, gain insight into my plight. I don’t know why so many are so afraid of you—you really are muddily sweet in all that heat.’ Death always gets the last line: ‘It is you who chooses to look at life through muddy ashen lenses, and I know it is good, because I chose that you would SEE, so remember my sweet sex, it is the greatest spiritual privilege to have a dance with me—now let go and believe. I’ll be waiting for you lover girl—you’re my special one.’ My sex knows Death says this to all her girls, but still, a craving is quenched in hearing it so.
Such a dance always leaves one feeling present, at last. When you are present, when your attention is fully in the now, that presence will flow into and transform what you do. There will be quality and power in it, but you must at least become friendly with the present moment, even before you can enter the dance. Cooling off in a lover’s contemplation with having sex feels good, so I say to myself, ‘make love as though it is your last day alive. Love a woman deeply because you want to stop time for love not because you want to be remembered as a good lover.’ Wanting to be remembered is a shallow grave, be brave and heal.
Even if you cannot be sexually present as such is a women’s challenge, know that you are infinity, that you were forged in the stars long ago and that the Almighty Mother will bring you home to her eventually, but in the meantime, make the world better with better love and sex.
Baste in the cannabis mud and remove the abusive crud. When the moon passes over Scorpio muddied waters, you can heal childhood trauma wounds. Transform the grief your bear into your gift. She/he who is reborn in imagination discovers the latent forces of nature. Beget a new star and heaven within the alchemical cannabis mud and transmute all that interferes with your infinity. Remember, energy follows thought. Be vigilant about ending oppression, but also be vigilant about not submitting to oppressive thought patterns. Heel, feel and sexually heal.
One of the great skills that come from the dance is to transform words that have caused deep hurt, words such as ‘cunt’. The oppressive slave makers and haters of women loaded this word with their germ and their sperm, but it just so happens to be my humble fate (given to me as a gift from Death) to be a word transformer and lucky for me, ‘cunt’ is the greatest mystery of them all, which is why I must love and plunge her deeply to be a true transforming agent for golden change. I take my work seriously in this erotic emailing game—this is one from She who inspired much of this transmutation:
Where ever the wild mare cunt wants it, she will be indulged. Can a she-wolf/waif break a mare? Hmmm. Well, no doubt, it is a deep and holy challenge, and one must rely on internal and external resources to mount this sermon. One must rely on planetary alignment and communing with the female spirits. The she-wolf/waif requires this: several probing emails to learn more, to build up, to make the wild mare cunt weak with words, because if the she-wolf/waif has lived to see proof of anything biblical, it is this--the word is INDEED mightier than the sword. This is hard for a wild mare cunt to believe, especially she who loves to look at her foe in the glint of her sword; she who is aroused when hearing her sword clashing and scraping violently up against another; she who is sated when plunging her sword into flesh, but so sad when the game is over, or is it a sadness that comes with the false belief of conquering? Beloved Joan knew that when you removed the ‘s’ you had the ‘word’. Because of her steely ways, the wild mare cunt is a truth-seeker, not so unlike the she-wolf/waif. Obviously, she is finally ready to acquiesce, to accept the she-wolf/waif for who she really is--medicine for wild mare cunt--and the sooner the better.
I swear the Mother puts them all on my path to ensnare but also to share, and look at the creativity it did bear. I am lifted with erotically composed emails but when you’re a sex chaser like me, you have to have a healthy dollop of resistance for rejection—it gets those sex molecules bristling for another dance, to transmute more desire into more good. When we engage in sexual love and healing by erotic emailing, we can have the best conversations ever. Engage in the conspiracy of hope for better love Orphan Spirits and take an oath to transmute your grief into a gift, remain ever mindful knowing the Almighty Mother conspires tirelessly in our favour.
No matter how many times you get rejected Orphan Spirits, never stop believing in romance. Live the love you dream and speak well of love in your head and heart. Whatever heavy energy you bear, swoosh it in The 4th River.
-30-
See more about hemp cannabis products for development on website, www.thehempfactory.com Interested in developing alchemical cannabis mud and other hemp/cannabis based products—if so contact: lorettahempfactory@sympatico.ca LOOKING TO DEVELOP A FORMULA FOR EROTIC EMAILING TO ENHANCE SEX: if interested, same email address. Loretta Clark
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