I’m surprised (and secretly amused) to have just read that David Morrell – a Canadian – is the creator of the “Rambo” character. Who’d have thought a guy from ” just down the way” as it were, could have invented a character that is referred to as a cultural icon by Wikipedia:
Note: “John Rambo is considered a cultural icon. The character influenced many action heroes and films in the 1980s and ’90s. The John Rambo character became a prominent part of pop culture, and “Rambo”, a word that can function as a noun, adjective, or a verb, became part of the English language. Perhaps more crucial from a cultural perspective, Rambo is a word that can be found in the prestigious Oxford English Dictionary. According to this source, Rambo is “a Vietnam War veteran represented as macho, self-sufficient and bent on violent retribution.” As well, it is widely popular to use adjectives such as Ramboesque, Ramboid, or Ramboism, to denote an ideological position that resembles Rambo’s attitude and behavior.”
So now that my twisted sense of humour is revealed, I guess I’d better review the book, if only in the interests of tying the title to the post!
Inspector of the Dead (Thomas De Quincey #2) by David Morrell is awesome!
I need a Sugar Daddy for my reading habit. That said, Audible has a 50% sale on at the moment. You should go. Audible is the best thing since books!
Oh! And… I had no idea whatsoever until I finished the book and went looking for #1 to add to my wish list, that David and Rambo were acquainted.
I like it here. Off “The Grid”
One fish, two fish
Me fish, you fish
Plenty of fishes
That little fish
What a dish!
But wait what’s this
A Bait and switch
Not rainbow trout
Just a big ole mud pout
All the little fishes
With their fishy little wishes
Swimming in the same old puddle
Same old worms, same old trouble
Plenty of fish? Yeah, well… Maybe
They all look like sharks to me
This little mermaid went to the ocean
This little mermaid crossed the sea
This little mermaid loves a sailor
That has yet to capture she
One fish, two fish
Old fish, new fish
Plenty of shark-ish
Methinks I’ll stay alone-ish
In my lovely, landlocked home
9 April 2015
I’ve tried to write this so many times, fingers are willing but the mind declines
To open up this locked place inside of me, seems to be the height of perversity
Laid bare once again, will I fall apart? Can I endure the pain of my own beating heart?
Words tease my thoughts in fragments, images torture my body in their completeness
The unfairness of it all assails me again, that even in “death” you can transcend
My every wall, my anger, tears, angry fists; with just your gentle eyes, a brush of kiss
Don’t do it! Don’t make me feel! I DO NOT WANT TO FEEL!!
I have chosen to be frozen. I choose to not speak the words. I don’t speak them, I don’t write them anymore. My eyes skitter away from them in the works of others. I have had success in chasing them from my thoughts and from my memories. Frozen. Unfeeling.
Safe in this cocoon of pseudo-chastity. Safe in euphemisms and bland phrases of sanitized poetry.
At least until this morning, when I woke and you were next to me.
I did not give you permission to invade my home, my heart, my head and I’m quite certain that I let you know you’re not welcome in my bed. Poetry… More poetry… My Wildman Poet is here with me.
You speak my body in words it knows and I feel reserve melting… the words… dance on the tip of my tongue… dare I write them here to be seen by anyone?
How perfectly ridiculous, how utterly perverse
That my Muse is ever with me, in “death” still haunts my every verse
Cradled in your arms, the warmth of your breath on my neck. One big hand drapes my body and cups my breast. Your thighs hug the back of mine, cold from the night air still, your semi gently insisting, warming… this body is melting… from the inside out… I warm as quickly as ever. Even in sleep, I’m amazed that the tickle of your beard at the back of my neck is so soft… and thoughts explode at contrasts of heat and cold, softness and strength… liquid silk and your tongue… I… don’t… want… to… feel… but I do. How you marvel at my small feet and worship the backs of my knees. How you bend me to your will and my only coherent word is “please”.
My hands and fingers know every angle of you, your broad shoulders, slim hips, the slick feel of our mingled sweat on your belly and thighs… do that again… that sound… that growl… when I pull your hair and catch your lip in my teeth… bourbon and Marlboros… liquid courage… Say my name… like that… like a cry… a command… a sigh. Handle me, make me, take me… and this… just this… my arse pressed against your hips… the sweetest slip… my hands pinned in yours… hours… hours… Passion, power, a battle fought and lost and I revel in my relinquishing… A raging volcano manifested in the arctic wasteland that was my body scant hours ago. Rescued from the Pompeiian stone that enveloped me when you went away… finally falling, drifting… back to sleep.
Waking to stare at this wraith on my pillow. The curve of your lip, the scent of you on my skin, your dark hair in tousled waves on my pillow. A wraith, a ghost and yet not… I can taste the salty spill of you in my mouth still and I am sore and spent, sated.
A willing prisoner to the memory of
8 April 2015
Originally posted on “Eclectic Unconfined”
Too long since my last “Lyrical”…
That said… and with a side of Absolut… I may even be feelin’… good…