Le Gentilhomme

Do not mistake my gentleness for weakness.
The strong hand is a gentle one.

 

Your Tension is fearful.
Violence is fearful. Anger is fearful.

 

For the rowdy male is frightened. Internal eye on only his weakness. He knows he is weak. They know.
And so he attracts the weak, for the strong disregard him. His company, who he dominates to falsely validate himself, is his reflection.
He is a playground bully – stuck in the little boy.

 

The gentle man, by contrast, is silent.
Still.
Certain.

 

Weakness is an inability to do what must be done.
The blemished male has an eagerness to act violently in mad defence of a rotting kingdom of blame, shame and excuse.
The gentle man will be aggressive if the moment calls for it, but never violent, and always benevolent in his correction of the adversary. He, loves all.

 

Yet few are willing to look at themselves and make the necessary corrections before attempting to correct others.

 

The gentle man, by contrast, corrects self.
Perfects art.
Elevates others.

 

Through the necessary internal adjustments I embolden and enlighten my reflections and therefore myself.

 

I am the dark angel, emanating from the light.
Your death has come to save you.
As I gracefully walk, things gently weep and wilt around me,
reborn beautifully in my wake.
Untouched by chaos.
I am a beacon of peace.
The eye of the storm.

 

My woman is my art. I cut into her with the blade of my stillness, and then mend her up with the light of my love.
I, her great destruction. I, her loving healer. She, the bubbling, churning abyss of my passion.
We die. We are reborn. We integrate.

 

And as I foster the seed of her might, the tree of my power thickens and entrenches itself deeper into the earth, becoming increasingly unmovable,
and unfathomably solid.

 

I am fluid. I am strong. I am gentle.

 

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Artwork by Josh Courlas
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Tall.

Winter mist on misty windows.
Trees poking out of the ground,
numerously surround us.
They stand tall,
like adults do.
Swaying too,
like emotions or the opinions of the men,
that plant and cut them.

Should I stand taller?
Deep in my roots,
solid in foundation,
yet pliable above ground?

In a silent field we sat.
Leaves singing our names,
and foliage crunching under us as we lay,
while we use each other as cushions.
This is ground, I think, we must tread carefully,
lest things end precariously.
Yet still you stare at me,
– you are not one for being careful.
And so I, too,
stare back at you,
– the warrior is never fearful.

I saw rock pools in your eyes,
in a wooden bathing house,
standing nude before you,
physically and otherwise.

I caught, too,
a failed disguise
for something rare these days.
Something real.
And I have known women in my life,
in more than a hundred ways,
but this is my favorite.
This.

What gifts,
have you come to bring to me, angel?
Just peels of laughter
and prettiness?
Or something you apportion less regularly?
Something special, just for me?
In exchange for something special,
just for you?

You have come to me to be at home.
This, I know.
Relax my love.
I will die,
willingly.
You have come to kill me,
finally.
So let us walk home together,
fearlessly,
and find the truth in each other,
beautifully.
For we will live forever.
Let’s walk this path together.
The God and Goddess await us.

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Photograph by Vivian Maier

 

 

 

 

 

Sharpening.

Silently, I sit…. Admiring her softness.

I have a stone upon which I sharpen my sword – a woman – whom through serving I build my tolerance for sacrifice and thereby step further into my strength. Service to her and to all women is my daily practice. And I have become fond of repeating the basics until perfect.

I was served by a woman as a child, and I now serve this woman and all women as a man. So turns the cycle of birth, death, and birth.

Woman, I now need nothing from you. Not your romance. Not your sex. I have everything I need internally. And all that is mine, externally, is coming to me. All you must do is be what you are and you will be loved deeply, and unconditionally. You will be listened to, and seen. You will be cherished for all that you are.

So do not clean after me. Do not cook for me. Do not exert yourself for I am not a kept man.

Accept me, consume me, and I will be a God for you that we might perpetuate this eternal dance of energetic polarity into each night and spill it over into each morning.

And when you wake I will be here. Unmoved. Unmovable. The warrior.

Your man.

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Photograph by Andrea Tomas Prato

 

Reverent.

I have burdened her in days of old with the heavy weight of expectation. Have contrived to make her magnificent and missed the greater spectacle before me, as if I knew the blueprints to a grander display than the greater powers at play could manage.

Stepped away, and saw her afresh. Refreshed. Came carrying an empty cup, allowed her to fill it by the bottomless reservoir of her wonder, and to empty it again. Fixed, then, my eye on her beauty and witnessed her become the beauty I could not see, previously.

Nature knows a greater philosophy than my faculties of speech have an allocation for, so I hold my tongue before it. And so, too, with a woman, will become busy now with my sacrifices, and ardent in my chivalry and reverent before the providence in her presence.

Why would I expect her to be anything but beautiful? I do not expect an eagle to be anything but an eagle. A man does not live by double standards, and her beauty is inherent.

I receive you, now. As I failed to receive you before. You are not for me to create in my own eye, but a target to adjust that eye to and know there that I see truth. And of love, money, fame or truth, I choose truth. I choose truth. I choose the man who will lead me there and I choose your beauty, unconditionally.

I rid myself of the filter of age, occupation, predilection, predisposition and like the clothes that fall delicately around your feet at the end of a long day, drop everything and stand nude before you, nude in reflection and see only beauty.  Thank you, goddess. You need to do nothing for my gratitude and nothing to be beautiful. All that requires change is the perception of the institution that tells you otherwise. Thank you. Thank you.
Thank you.

– Michael

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Artwork by Becha

 

nb: featured image by Jamie McCartney

 

 

The First Steps.

Giving. Not to receive but receiving. Being a conduit for her pleasure and elevation. Mastering yourself to master the moment. Unconquered and radiant. Divine.

Loving, in that giving. Not to be loved but being loved. Being loved so dearly. Taking a step back and tending to the raising and releasing of her energy before your own, if your own at all. Do not be conquered by her. She will test you. Remain strong. Unmoved. She awaits the unmovable man to truly move her, if you are anything else you will tire against her resistance. See no enemy. Defeat your enemy by having no enemy. You are victorious.

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If you are a lover of women, love women. If you a fighter of battles, fight battles. If you are a writer of words, then indulge these faculties as often as your potency would permit it. If you wish to love, fight and write then do these things yet be the master of them. And do not disperse your energy towards that which you will not master. In time, master all. In short, master just one thing, and that is the first stone in the chapel of mastering all.

Know not to talk of what you know. I shall not talk. I know little and what I do is for me, you may not have it. Yet you may have its fruits as I elevate you lovingly and patiently – all in good time. For now I tend to my own garden. There are beautiful flowers budding there for me to sit and drink tea with.

Destroy her. Be destroyed. In the inferno of passion hold stance and authority. Be gentle when the moment requires it of you, firm when necessary, also. Bring her to her death, and by her hand, die yourself but on your terms, when the time comes to do so. Select the moment, and if you must release do so into the womb of surrender, only. Take on only as much responsibility as you are capable of managing. Manage that responsibility well.

And remember, none of it is real, anyway. So have fun with it, also.

– M