Of Gods and Men III

I was talking to a friend yesterday, about the problem with the notion of love.

Specifically, how being cynical robs you of the so-called ‘honeymoon period’. You never have the initial few weeks where you see the other with rose tinted glasses. Where all their eccentricities are still cute and endearing, rather than being nails-on-a-chalkboard intolerable. Cynicism and a healthy wariness of love never lets you experience the euphoria that brings.

At the same time, it seems as though it’d be a distinct advantage to going into something with your eyes wide open. Fear and vulnerabilities aside, maybe starting with a rational acknowledgment and acceptance of imperfections would be a better foundation weather the inevitable storms.

Maybe it’s just the pragmatism of surrender speaking, having been utterly defeated by that one and only attempt at loving madly that I could muster. Rationale makes for a sturdy excuse.

Or maybe, this is what my version of hope is going to be. But I’m finding- loving smart is so much more difficult than loving hard.

Here’s to falling, one way or the other, and hopefully flying.

Love and light,

Cookie ❤


Make Me Beautiful

Make Me Beautiful







He wanted to make me beautiful. He made my eyes first. That’s how I could see him make the rest.

The poor God with the bloodshot eyes, kneeling before an empty pedestal. There was a vast shallow pan on the floor beside him, like a squashed bathtub, and remains of halfway abandoned creations littered the floor near its rim. His straw colored hair was my horizon for the first few hours. He smiled down at me and kept working. Slowly, the world gained clarity. Images sharpened an borders defined themselves as he shaped and prodded my eyes into place, coming close enough to kiss me while he carved my irises. Every breath he took washed over my face, and I heard the softly whispered promises on each of them, and smiled unseen. He wanted to make me beautiful.



He molded my lips, my nose, my jaw. He lingered for an unwarranted amount of time over my neck and my breasts, seeking to give permanence to some imagined perfection. I had no doubt of his skill- the world I saw was proof enough. Nymphs laughed at me from across the room, fawns lurked in the shadows, scared of the light, and from where I saw, gracefully perched on my plinth, I could see them all. He sang as he worked, my lonely God, working his dexterous fingers over my calves, drawing lines of life all the way to my feet. He would flit between my fingers and my hair, sculpting one to be delicate, the other to be heavy, to fall and cover me from the eyes of the world. So my hair fell to my waist- even obscured my vision of him for a little bit- but he fixed it immediately. He wanted to see me. He wanted me to see.



Ever so often, he’d walk to the depression in the floor and bring me some more clay. He made a seat next to me, covered my nakedness with flowers and leaves, and left enough place for him to sit by me, as I lived and breathed only where he could see. And he never stopped making me. Sometimes, he’d remake my lips. Sometimes, he’d rework my feet, and I’d watch his sunny hair gleam in the morning light while he broke off my toes, one by one, and make me new ones. For the most part, I was beautiful enough for him, and he was happy with me.



Till the night he came in, and sat next to me, and wept. He put his head on my shoulder and cried like he was the only man left alive, like his heart had seen unspeakable things and they knew no other language but tears. And he howled with impotent rage, screaming and lashing out at my inadequate efforts to soothe him. He picked up a trowel and hacked at my face, gouging out my cheeks, my forehead, methodically destroying every feature I had, while I gaped soundlessly at him.



And in the morning he woke up in a rubble of existence, unable to watch him, but I felt him. Slowly he got up, penitent, and fetched more clay, to make me again.



I didn’t mind. He’d make me beautiful.




For The Story – The Old Bachelor’s Respite

The Old Bachelor’s Respite





I called her over for dinner
The table was bedecked, lavishly spread
Her place was set with the first soup, and salad
-Wine and a delicate vinaigrette
She walked in demurely, arm in the crook of my arm
And at the sight, very nearly lost her head


At the sight of her, I very nearly lost my head


She sat down gracefully, into the chair I pulled
It was very clear that she was visibly thrilled
The white arch of her throat stark against the blood red ruffle
Her gaze fluttered alluringly in my direction, calling
I took deep breaths to inhale her, compose myself, and stilled
My forced calm went unseen
She lingered lustfully on each dish instead
I knew it right then,
I just had to get into her head


I poured her another glassful, her eyes sparkling, crystal cut
The effort it took to restrain my appetite, was too much
Fork clashing with knife, a vessel overflowing with life, such
Was the pull that I almost left my own food untouched
The subtle press of her fingers on mine, as I passed the bread
Intoxicant for my vintage, I simply had to hurry
She was already getting ahead

They all threatened to get ahead
-I took a deep breath-
They never did
I was hungry, I decided petulantly
Dinner was served
Now it really was time I fed


I walked around to pour her one more, just
One more innocent glass
In a moment, her duck l’orange was cooling patiently, congealing
Into an indistinguishable meaty mass
Because her knife would descend no more, nor would
The orgasmic sigh, so softly, sound
She lay half splayed in her chair, lifelessly
As the blood pooled upon the ground
Her eyes were fixed, her face a rictus
A death mask, a last oh how could you!
I ignored it, pretty but mere accessory, as I chewed
Through that elegant neck’s sinews
Contorted, no doubt, but salty and delicious
-fresh is always best, as I’ve often said

I picked up the fork from her limp held fingers
It was time to get into her head




Written for the story, The Old Bachelor’s Respite, found on Reddit.



Cheers, and bon appetit. 😉




I created life
From the pit of my stomach
it awakens, visceral
Clawing itself out from my eyes
Feeling its way out, it pries and
Drags out all thought as it pours
With each touch, more
Into form, pooling
Onto the paper
solidifying, cooling
Hardens, congeals
Preens in its perfection
And the sense I gave away to it
Within me, heals
And each slumbering cell in me
Thrums with life
If I can taste
a handful of words so,
A few scattered lines
created, oh
How the moons and planets
would have sated!
Can you imagine the light?
I wonder what God feels like



The thing about creation is, you need to keep one eye at what’s forming, and one eye looking out for what it’s going to be.

Like writing. Most of the time I start aimlessly, but have this tugging in my gut that helps point put which direction I should send the words in. None of it is conscious, none of them a reckons you’d decisions- ‘oh let’s write about butterflies and sunsets’- It doesn’t work that way.

The first line appears to you, then its mate. Could be the start, the middle, or just a stray line that was drifting around at the bottom of you thoughts, and your subconscious latched onto it. And you go from there. Weighing letters, deciding if they’re capable of conveying your feelings- if they deserve to convey your feelings. Not all words deserve feelings, and not all feelings deserve words.

Of course, this is all dissected in hindsight. When you write, it’s just a flurry of images and thought and emotion, and all the decisions I mentioned, dancing around each other till – your poem’s on paper.

Painting’s much of the same. There’s a streak of color, slashing across a canvas, snaking its way slowly, sluggishly, or blazing down the page- you never know. The colors know where they have to go, and they tell you.

I haven’t any experience in making music, but I imagine musicians know their notes the same way too. Some songs are too fluid to be anything but a composition breathed to life from its dormant perfection. Just saying.

We create, from the pits of our stomachs. From the dredges of thought. From the words that won’t let us breathe and the faces that won’t let us sleep. We wrestle our demons and pin down our angels, and survey the indecipherable maze, wondering if someone will follow the clues. We create anger and sorrow and ecstasy and silent observation. We create them all and immortalize then in memory and on paper. In ink and oil and clay, they do not bleed or move but we breathe our life into them. For their purpose, for their intent, for making them who they are to be made for- we create them.

To Creation.