The yellow was for Wordsworth's host of golden Daffodils now marching down each urban red bricked street trying hard to block the vision of rusting empty beer cans wind swept chip wrappers and the flotsam discarded by the hungry smoker who now down to political correctness has to lurk in a perverted fashion,flasher mac entombed under distilled light from ailing street lights.What a picture they paint,but then again who am i to notice,or take note, the flasher mac could quite easily entomb me deep in the murky world of masturbation,in fact the cloth fits.Nemesis rises up hard,stiff seductive whispers are thankfully guided away by the stern foreboding words of once more being cast aside becoming flotsam in this sour regulated world driven by the green fingers reaching into my pocket and not thinking of the soul within.
Today the black thread was, if i over stepped the mark become greedy for cocks before even passing the first mile in tested moonstones.Ringing in my ear was the sound of bells pulled by black rope the strangled thought of what if no more mistress especially after the heights taken these past few days,the tease of her knowing how infatuated i am by her body and her power to draw the bow in its use.My mistress is becoming good learning rapidly probably knowing myself far better than i do.
Next thursday i will have jumbed the final hurdle so far i have only knocked one down,such is my obsession with cocks and i must bow down to the mistress in humiliation and forbid myself to no longer visit my favourite sites until the final hurdle is jumped,and even then i have no idea what is in her thoughts there after.
Does that alarm me,this journey into the unknown this unleashing of the dark side in her mind unless it is my own vanity i believe she is enjoying this and then what is the point if the power given her is but flour on the table blown and dusted off into the rays of moonlight she can see from her bedroom window,the snowflakes gently falling soon to be put to bed kissed under the leaf mold for yet another year.
How time moves, when i started reading her quips in the stuffy warmth of the log cabin pinned on the wall,did i envisage that one day i would be serving her willing to be her slave,but is willing the right word, no demanding she take up the chalice by drinking down thoughts outside the mainstream.What is the bond..??in all this..i drove past my old school today all that is left are ghosts clinging to the waving rich yellow daffodils i thought of the two in a single moment side by side, the stern huge breasts in brogue blinding my eyes with stiffness bouncing down to the urging chant found in the vessels deep in the past caught, in the silence in whispering gnostic dwarfs..the other huge breasts as falling snowflakes softness caught in desire come hither mushrooming giggles amongst overhanging sunflowers,summer petals plucked she luvs me she luvs me not..daisies chains mix with my spiders,as another day passes on.The rich tapestry once more neatly folded have i made any sense perhaps not,but i have honoured my mistess and i have made sense to me myself.