from the archives

Wescos Under BDUs

This photo is from earlier this year, but it certainly is in the spirit of the recent series. There is an element to the implication of tall boots hidden by pant legs that is often interesting. How tall are the boots and can you tell when the top is hidden? Look. Can you see the top edge of the boot under the denim or cotton of his pants? Is it because the fabric is loose, or are his leg muscles pushing against the shaft of the boot and the material forcing the mouth of the boot to be visible? When you can’t see the top of the boot, could it be because it is tall enough to not be seen below the knee? How thick is the leather, how close to the leg does it fit?

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A Roque of Ixpremiads

Lode, the waining trembles of sentient orthonauts fly! What dreamy and miasmic turnbulls wait in the gnarly wings? One treads not on such dainty, delicate tomes. The festooned reliquaries grumble and hum with unsanitary expectations. One does not suffer such imbrications lightly.

– Stout heart! Fondle knot the tender eggs of men! Your unfiled nails might scratch and tear and summon sanguine leakage upon your hands and the earth between your feet!

Crimson fluids gush from fresh rent flesh and congeal into wrens and rooks and other winged beasties. Clear water, fecund with womanish stuffs wash away the evidence, but the roque remains. Do not fear the ixpremiad, but embrace it. Make it your own. Color it in scents of pastures and loose-clothed mornings like the marmalade of the Sun, sweet up front and bitter at the back.

Centurion! Do you heed the warnings of your sister’s mother? What works for her falls flat for you. Sitting in static at the foot of your birthing bed, Time’s gondola and gambit conspire to dongle to the status quo. Such translations rarely do justice to the anticipation and afterscent of desire’s placenta.

©2017 Stuart Dummit