he is my hunter thompson, chuck bukowski and oscar wilde all roll up into the wild beast of the midwestern fields. my love for this passionate and outrageous one runs deep to the core of my being, the light and dark place where the sacred and profane play craps drinking absenthe from ancient bottles. while everything says it's impossible, we like oil and water combine, i still can't escape the pull of desire and passion combined. i want to ride free and loose myself on the back of his bike in a desert night. erase all the heart ache and pain with late night wrestling and drug saturated midnight love making. he's the kind who sits in a room typing clarity in seeming chaos saturated by a gallon of cheap booze and black label cigarettes, grumbling and i try to seduce him away from the muse laying half naked across a hotel bed. the drugs and liquor and cigarettes are never as strong a medicine for my illing as his hands running up my thighs and his mouth saturating mine. the beast in him calls out the darker beast in me, in his presence she is finally allowed to be free. he comes rolling in and out with the tide and the wind and the rails, it's the only way this madlove can go. for we both know he'd slowly kill me if he stayed. as much as i need i must always have the freedom to walk away.