Perfect Illusion, contest winner
Eye On Life Team | Sunday, March 7, 2010 at 9:38PM “Perfect Illusion”
by Tom Rubenoff
Perfect illusion ill used per individual abstract fact and non-homogeneous, a refraction, subjective subjection subjected to a dream or hallucination, barbarous, incongruous and vain, projecting projects forward in a wanton lustful consumption of time wherein we sit mesmerized by the sand running out, our skin sagging with its own weight. In the moment there is no perfection but reflection of self, realization that you are all there is. There I am in the shiny surface of your eye, miniaturized and inscrutable, your parted lips deigning to speak yet sweetly exhaling an emotion I do not understand.
Comforting myself with ‘there will be a time’, I know no such nonsense, neither do I guess. A vanity and a delusion, I know.
Extracting the pure love enacted like a cat from her favorite pillow, claws extended and embedded deeply therein – this might hurt a little, there may be a pinch. So says the nurse. Yet just like maple syrup after the impurities are boiled away down to the sweet essence, the pure sweetness of love undiluted by lust, jealousy, or desire. Unpaired with hurt sources leaves only joy, faith and good.
Desiring without desire, I revel in your pleasure. Just threw that out. Love without lack, fullness of joy, a lighthouse burning within without, otherworldly light pouring out through my pores and throughout the universe from whence it came, un-wincing, a simple circulation of energy through, cleansing, full of purest pleasure. How then should I covet yours?
Distractions do not detract. The nurse, curled purring with the cat: “You are.” I know and own that, reflecting as she wears white thigh-tops, topped with lace, bless her blissful thighs and supple sighs, occurring elsewhere. She is only my muse in costume, disguised in other guise, sexier than when naked. Yesterday she was a French maid, oo la la. Bitch.
The dawn in subdued anticipation of day, almost silent in the REM sleep of the world, my friend, hours away you sleep in someone’s arms: a child’s, a lover’s, your own. All is well. The eyelashes of the world flutter in dream.
Reader Comments (2)
Very nice Tom. Applause, applause!
Way to go, Tom! Congrats!