Joe Turner

A few electrons, perhaps only one or two, stir in your brain and cascade into a thought and you move your fingers and the thought coalesces on my phosphor screen and my mind touches yours, I am with you, leading you down the convoluted corridors of my mind. There are many rooms in my mind, more than I can ever know, bright yellow, happy sun bathed rooms, and some dark and bleak;   love the sunny rooms where the binding chains of reality rust and fall away and my can soul soar. What a magical place, I can go anywhere be anything!

Come with me, I have made a room for you. Come walk with me, it isn’t far. Take my hand I know the way; but I have never been into this room.  It is yours and only you and I can go there.  Do you smell the incense of the candle; I make them myself from tallow and beeswax and the essential oils of plants and flowers. Oh not those happy daises and yellow dandelions that wither and disappear in the wind, but from damp forest moss and shadowy orchids and the musky apricot of chanterelles. There is no limit here; draw in the smell with lungs that have no limit; it  intoxicates my thoughts.

           Watch your step no one ever cleans or straightens in here. There, up ahead in the shadows, see the black door with the iron work? That’s the one.  The key is here somewhere, ahh, here it is. The key is not so big, for such a special room. I love how the candle light, yellow and gold, plays on the black stone walls.

I have a scarf for your eyes it is the most wondrously silken scarf I have ever felt. I make these too, here in my mind. There are silk worms and the most delightful mulberries you ever tasted, and leaves, emerald green and velvety soft. Such silk, these silkworms spin! What magic there is here, one moment you are clothed and then there you are glowing golden in the candle light, your clothes but a vapor. I can smell them mixed with the sweet musky flame of the candle. Here let me rub the scarf on you; let it flow over your breasts like a silken stream. Rippling and flowing like perfumed oil over the soft mounds and valleys of your body. Like Gulliver, I look closer and closer. The fine downy hair on your stomach glows golden in the candle light, each with its own rainbow glint. The scarf settles and pools at the confluence of your creamy thighs. Your warm moistness dampens the silken cloth here and there. I can see your muscles begin to writhe searching for gratification and resolution. I take the scarf and bind your eyes lightly but secure. And then when we have almost nothing left to explore I am almost afraid to ask could we do this again?  Your mind or mine I hear you reply.