11/08/2020
Mikadomann
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Mikadomann
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Woke up in the arms of a satyr, a faun..
Woke up in the arms of a satyr, a faun...
Your sheet-roofed beds are not my thing!
Nor your cushions in the narrow bunks you crawl into when you are lonely and devote more effort to hiding them - even from yourself - than to surrendering to them and becoming real.
My bed is the moss. My pillow is the leaves I won't need your blankets. I want to see!
Last night in the clearing, you saw me. And I saw you As I lay there. And you were terrified. Not just at the sight of me. Because I am beautiful. Beautiful, even if - no: because my goats feet and my horns alienate you. These and my fur Last night in the clearing you smelled me - even before you saw me. I know it.
I saw you turn away. How you wrestled with yourself. Between repulsion and fascination, you were. You turned away and yet you sensed that scent, that smell.
And when you came closer to see what it is, and when I raised my upper body, supported on my arms, and when you ran away, I knew you would come back.
And you're here. So fast
By my bed there are no roses and no lilies. That's not my thing But I like to make flowers bloom for you. Deep purple ones with yellow veins in their fleshy petals. Very close to the ground where the mushrooms grow. They only open in the dark. When the sultriness of the day turns into the sultriness of the night. When next to the moon the scent of this flower with its waxy sweetness marks the night. Threads of its milky white juice attract the insects. They settle down on their goblets and drink from the juice like nectar. Their wings are iridescent green and their buzzing is dull. Eventually they fall silent. For the flowers never let go of them.
Does the smell beguile you? The damp leaves, the flowers and the moss? The mushrooms - also the decay?
If all this is so, how much so I! br />
There you are. Close to me. So close Breathe on me! Do you smell what I smell like? Not soap or tepid water. This is something for your heroes. I smell like skin and fur, which is everywhere you touch. Soft, very soft in this place. And hard in this bristly part. Drops of resin in it, stuck together from the trees I rubbed myself against. And in the beard on my chin, honey from the combs I drank from. Smell that? My breath close to yours. After the vanilla oil from the pods I tore from the bushes. Herb, because without sweetness. ...and the wood and bark that I chew just to pass the time. I smell of body and all that he is and what he takes and what he gives. ...tallow and oils
Love is not my thing. Lust: I'm good at that! I'm closing in on you. I lower my head. And as I lower it, one of my horns will touch you, just where you're most sensitive. At your side. The tip of the horn goes over your skin. Down your flank and down your belly and down where your belt would be. Are you trembling?
Put your face against my cheek, in the crook of my neck, against my ear, in my neck Smell the flowers I rolled in. Smell the fruits I crushed and whose juice I drank Smell the herbs I played between and rubbed myself with And smell the animals in whose dens I lay Smell the rain in my wet fur Smell the traces of all desire. My lust.
And if your lust then tears you apart, it is only because you are lost in a powerless fall in the night-black sky and at the same time your fingers claw into the damp mossy ground and because roots grow from them, which keep you on the ground, keep you here with me. And as you fly and at the same time become one with the humus, you will call words into the trees that you do not know.
And an overwhelming fragrance will carry you. From flowers, from trees, from juices, from animals, from wind and grass, tanned, anointed, from sweat and smoke.
In the morning in your bed between the rumpled blankets. You'll smell him, still. Gently now, a little airy, harmonious almost and almost lovely Between the rumpled blankets - and you know:
That night, it was the arms of a satyr, a faun...
Your sheet-roofed beds are not my thing!
Nor your cushions in the narrow bunks you crawl into when you are lonely and devote more effort to hiding them - even from yourself - than to surrendering to them and becoming real.
My bed is the moss. My pillow is the leaves I won't need your blankets. I want to see!
Last night in the clearing, you saw me. And I saw you As I lay there. And you were terrified. Not just at the sight of me. Because I am beautiful. Beautiful, even if - no: because my goats feet and my horns alienate you. These and my fur Last night in the clearing you smelled me - even before you saw me. I know it.
I saw you turn away. How you wrestled with yourself. Between repulsion and fascination, you were. You turned away and yet you sensed that scent, that smell.
And when you came closer to see what it is, and when I raised my upper body, supported on my arms, and when you ran away, I knew you would come back.
And you're here. So fast
By my bed there are no roses and no lilies. That's not my thing But I like to make flowers bloom for you. Deep purple ones with yellow veins in their fleshy petals. Very close to the ground where the mushrooms grow. They only open in the dark. When the sultriness of the day turns into the sultriness of the night. When next to the moon the scent of this flower with its waxy sweetness marks the night. Threads of its milky white juice attract the insects. They settle down on their goblets and drink from the juice like nectar. Their wings are iridescent green and their buzzing is dull. Eventually they fall silent. For the flowers never let go of them.
Does the smell beguile you? The damp leaves, the flowers and the moss? The mushrooms - also the decay?
If all this is so, how much so I! br />
There you are. Close to me. So close Breathe on me! Do you smell what I smell like? Not soap or tepid water. This is something for your heroes. I smell like skin and fur, which is everywhere you touch. Soft, very soft in this place. And hard in this bristly part. Drops of resin in it, stuck together from the trees I rubbed myself against. And in the beard on my chin, honey from the combs I drank from. Smell that? My breath close to yours. After the vanilla oil from the pods I tore from the bushes. Herb, because without sweetness. ...and the wood and bark that I chew just to pass the time. I smell of body and all that he is and what he takes and what he gives. ...tallow and oils
Love is not my thing. Lust: I'm good at that! I'm closing in on you. I lower my head. And as I lower it, one of my horns will touch you, just where you're most sensitive. At your side. The tip of the horn goes over your skin. Down your flank and down your belly and down where your belt would be. Are you trembling?
Put your face against my cheek, in the crook of my neck, against my ear, in my neck Smell the flowers I rolled in. Smell the fruits I crushed and whose juice I drank Smell the herbs I played between and rubbed myself with And smell the animals in whose dens I lay Smell the rain in my wet fur Smell the traces of all desire. My lust.
And if your lust then tears you apart, it is only because you are lost in a powerless fall in the night-black sky and at the same time your fingers claw into the damp mossy ground and because roots grow from them, which keep you on the ground, keep you here with me. And as you fly and at the same time become one with the humus, you will call words into the trees that you do not know.
And an overwhelming fragrance will carry you. From flowers, from trees, from juices, from animals, from wind and grass, tanned, anointed, from sweat and smoke.
In the morning in your bed between the rumpled blankets. You'll smell him, still. Gently now, a little airy, harmonious almost and almost lovely Between the rumpled blankets - and you know:
That night, it was the arms of a satyr, a faun...
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