Eat it up. You've been waiting for this.
This is my studio for exploring my work. Consider these drafts.
You left a message,
“Grab some booze, I’m coming over."
So I did as told and
waited: 11, 12, 1 o'clock.
As I dozed off with a glass of melted ice,
the phone rang,
5 minutes later, the door buzzer dopamine thrill
shot through me, and I ran down
8 flights of stairs because waiting for the elevator
would’ve killed me.
I leaned in for your neck
and met your leather shoulder barreling past.
You pushed the lift button
and pulled off your shades.
I saw those eyes cocked like fists
spoiling for a fight.
Upstairs I poured a couple fingers
as you pulled out some records.
Aaron Neville pleaded from my speakers
as I sang along from my dirty futon.
Your silence threw an uppercut to my ego.
A long exhale like a sucker punch
to my solar plexus.
I intercepted a stony stare with
a palm landing gently on your spine,
and we both sat there like strangers
at a reiki clinic.
This always happens when
we decide to look for words
for our 2am encounters,
our 9am Bellinis,
and the occasional 4pm “i miss you”
that carries us forward from week to week.
The words for what compels me
to set my teeth upon your cheekbone,
for you to paint my thighs
with your lips.
Words that make sense of all the waiting in between.
Finally one gauntlet drops to the ground,
you whisper into my hair.
“let me be with you when I'm not here."
So you light a cigarette,
put on some Dr. John,
and reach for a camera.
Text by S.M. Simões. Model: Jes Davis
I put my fig trees out today in hopeful anticipation of summer fruit. They had been cramped up for the winter, biding their time in the dark attic.
Soon there will be butterflies and exuberant colors, I'm told.
For now let's thaw a bit and imagine those bright, warm touches.
She's like candy. There's a sudden burst of pleasure every time you look at her. It feels indulgent and somehow untoward to linger, to savor, to look just one more time. But even after thousands of sweet looks you never grow dull to the sight of her. She'll always have a power over you; and you'll always want one more taste...maybe two more.
Looking through old photos today, I was struck perhaps for the the first time with the weight of time on my work. A small weight surely, but detectable nonetheless. The images no longer simply had a set of feelings and memories and colors that were nearby, but they now have the sense of being from another era.
Now when I look at these photos of Missy from the summer of 2011 (it was an oven-hot Chicago weekend), I blush anew because of the distance. Her cherry-red lips are somehow even more provocative; her yellow girdle (the one I saw in her room and begged her to wear) is somehow even more surprising.
I was reading St. Bernard's sermons on the Song of Songs today, as I'm tempted to do on quiet afternoons. I seek him out for the extravagance of language and images that come from his monkish mind. It's how I get my thrills.
So much for the fruit. But one can love the fruit and peel it, too. And is a bite so bad at all?
Please forgive me, I've been keeping so many secrets from you all. So many beautiful secrets. I promise to share more of them with you in 2016, but for now here are a few that I have on my mind and would like to share. Give me your ear and let me whisper to you...
You'll find some more secrets here if you're one of those extra curious types...
Three postcards, one for each.
Dispatches from the vague case of ocean fever
that I claimed when I dipped underground,
Out of their reach.
One cropped full of bikinied throngs
for the breathless, tractor-beaming Lothario
who wooed with absurd promises
and hot prose studded with “now” and "ache"
One, more reserved, of cactus-flower cliffs
for the ex-pat glacier-chaser
who filled a secret mailbox
with arctic trophies
and a lust recently paroled.
One just a photo of my feet in the sea
for the landlocked vet of an unnamed war
who drummed and gunned and Sturm und Drang me,
who held my mouth upside down and
shook loose change from my words,
who, oiling the hinge in the back of my neck,
inspired an aura of creative convulsion,
and whose hair inexplicably left sand in my sheets.
- S.M. Simões