Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
From the Foot-Locker Etchings

She laughed, I laughed.  I don’t remember at what though.  Everything was a blur.  That kind of blur that occurs after I’ve been two fisting that Somerset wine.  Even in this state, I was still mix mastering drinks in the kitchen.  A little of this, a lot of that, and suddenly it was a Melon tasting concoction that had a mild spice to it.  Like a Serrano pepper or something.
My shirt had already slipped off my body by this point, the cotton just getting to itchy to stand any more.  I don’t how she managed to do it, but she had, ice cubes and all, ended spilled on top of me.  Maybe it was my forehead that had knocked the Collins when I went to rest my head in her lap.  Call it a bit forward.
Oh wastage, I stated, rolling to my feet.  Her eyes got a little mischievous, We can’t have that, her voice cut in, all soft and sexy, smoky even.  Like an underground Parisian bar during La Nouvelle Vague.  The hypercritic in the recesses of my skull thought that her line had a particular cheese to it, but the voice, the voice had done whatever magic I hoped it was supposed to.  The haze was still there no doubt.
She licked my skin.  Got on her knees, pulled my closer by the waist of my jeans, and licked my stomach, getting the booze and flavor that lay there.  She kept licking, kept at it.  I could feel an involuntary smile cross my face.  I haven’t seen that smile in while, she cooed out, Why not?  I didn’t, couldn’t have a proper answer that wouldn’t give everything away and lay me there, on the carpet, naked, exposed, and unsure.  Because, was the best I could get out.
Pulling me onto the couch, she straddled my legs, effectively pinning me, underneath her, and her tongue, her lips, her warm breath.  That tongue had made its way to my very erect nipples, getting them clean of the sweet and spicy drink I had made for her.  I had a hold my wine bottle until she took that from me, and pinned both my wrists under her knees, never stopping.
I had closed my eyes, relaxing, and enjoying the attention she was giving me, her tongue swirling on my chest, the quick little bites she gave my neck and shoulders.  Somewhere outside, I heard the party music switch to twang bluegrass, and her tongue stud traced up my carotid, sending shivers down my spine.  She nibbled on my ear lobe for few seconds, breathed gently into my ear, I need another drink, full of suggestion.
She had a devilish look about her when she left the room, leaving me, still in haze, clothed, hard-pricked, and teased.  I never did like that woman, taking another drop of wine.  She wasn’t coming back.
Love,

Johnny Rumble

Monday, May 02, 2011

Johnny Rumble:
Flag Waving Ameri-won't

With the death of Osama Bin Laden in Pakistan on May 2nd 2011 local, and the subsequent annoncement by American President Barak Obama, CNN's White House camera turned toward the fence line of the front lawn to capture images of many people waving the American flag, shouting cries of jubilance, and generally celebratining the death of perhaps the world's greatest terrorist leader.  I was notifed of the news, in fact, buy the ecstatic-toned text message "Breaking news: Osama Bin Laden is dead.  We got him!" sent by one of my friends.  The subsequent partying and celebrations that occured (many can be found on YouTube) have left a cold feeling in the pit my stomach about how Americans have reacted to the news.

The War on Terror since 2001 has left a trail of destruction and death in it's wake, death tolls have varied widely, but official Department of Defence reports place the death number at six thousand as of May 2nd 2011.  War, any kind of war, is frankly and utterly state-sponsored murder (and if you believe Ramsay MacDonald, suicide), with malice-aforethought, and much planning on how to commit less "suicide" for the goodies and murder more baddies.  Six thousand men and women in uniform sent out to murder the murderers, with six-degrees of seperation many times, that "commited suicide" on the murderous fields of war

We mourn these six thousand, pray for the familys, and re-commit our resolve to get those responsible and murder them back.  But we don't stop, mourn or pray for those dead.  Forgetting the familys of those dead left behind, the children with out fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters.  Instead, the American people celebrate and cheer that other Americans murdered, rightly or wrongly, murderers.  And we celebrate the fact that the Americans practiced for seven months on the best way to murder.  Premeditated, with-malice,  murder.

Osama Bin Laden, along with hundreds of thousands more people, was murdered by Americans, and despite what President Obama may have said on national television, justice was not done, there was no trial, Bin Laden was instead shot in the head, murdered, and a nation rejoiced and partied and praised the offenders.

Love,

Johnny Rumble