A Weather Stripped Mountain and Caves under Trees. A Confounded Letter.

Alexion was music and soft fumbled sex, dreams and real. Forgetting and still. A word of creativity in me and a light shining in the darkness of the sickness I had come to and for, far too early. A weather stripped mountain and caves under trees. She was western islands and mythic, real and not, old and far away. Casting around for her rescue from the rape of her time and hoping to be found while still young.

A whole experience for me, to me, explained in my sickness and the lies of those who said, illness suits you. She was pollution in the rivers of my childhood stamped on the virgin snow crags in my paintings. She was all of them trumpet taunting, laughing, shouting, crying and unwilling to allow me. Separate from reality and close to costly insanity. A girl far dreaming from far away and long ago. She was the saddest thing in my language and the failure to work at the things I must see to succeed. Sucking at what I did not know but tried to.

She came with bells as a sculpture clashing smashing in the wind. This was a start in puberty, in the loss of my certainty when I left the Doctor who said “This won't happen again, will it?”. A question in me that left home and went abroad, growing.

She turned with me inside and was small enough to sit on my beautiful thinking aloud. She stopped my face from breathing with her salty taste and she never, ever, ever spoke.

She sweat and scratched. Licked and held new ball weight in her hand. She pushed her own hand inside herself until it was thin arm and then tasted what dripped, before giving it to me with a kiss and a slap of the removed hand shiny. Leaving the shiny palm print that is still on my chest.

She could squeeze and hold, hold and still, squeezing fresh juice that no longer belonged to me, to dip in and drink together. I think she stopped me from being as freshly green fertile as one of the later one's wanted me.

Silent she was, drifting on her lubricated sex, sliding her place wherever she felt hardness and suckling with both top and bottom.

She was, for want of better, symphonic dreams of night. She wanted both me and not. To say she was pupil was rot because she died a long time ago before I was born, and the teacher also no, because she came to me, not me to her.

Succuba sex, evil and good, very good for one virgin who had not except with the one who he loved most of all of them ever. But could never, ever again until that one later died saying she loved me forever.

Alexion came and went with the time it all went away. She left when it all returned and did not come back.