Hemisphere 1
The
thread stitches a corset in my mind binding the figment image of you like a
vortex. The parabolic lines of torso voluptuous, unwieldly, flaring as if your
lochs are made of fire, flamed strands floating around the circumference of
your face undulating as if under water, but engulfed in the orange reddish
curls of a nova bursting in the absolute charcoal liquid midnight. I can see you there burrowing past the
glowing fusion into your thoughts like the belly of a star. We could be there in a panoply from the
mundane quotidian infantry marching away nestled in a conch shell of
intellectual conclave. The way you think
like Mozart upon my libido tinged in the perspective of dream from where the
reality of you ends and my imagination permeates the barrier where we can touch
and I can feel your pant in my reverie.
We
live behind keyholes, hiding, and crouching, pressing sealed oaken door dead
bolts. The whole god damn universe is inside
swirling like a magnetic typhoon pounding an anvil tsunami across still
water. The costume of urbanity,
politeness, and the coquetry of surface I can feel the mathematics of your
introspection titillating my libido like the whip of a rider to the horse. The veil is bursting chains away of how one
is supposed to respond, to act, in the presence of a librarian goddess filing
away the volume of raucous attraction a Coriolis cock-wise breaking my lips in
slices like a letter-opener blade to an envelope I want to read you. I want to read the folds of your binding like
Lady Chatterley’s lover and be your gamekeeper.
Intimate
lenses into peephole refractions cogitating pensive analytics proffering an
amuse bouche on the table of your eye contact.
The amusement parks mount circus tents erected in the industry of coffee
runs after ten p.m. to ignite the night owl into flight on sofa talks of Soren Kierkegaard
and Jacques Derrida on how to live in the either-or these hands around ankles
riding the silken pages of skin fastening purview into the quotes tattooed
across your back. Your gaze becomes an
enfilade volleying gunfire along a line from end to end of this beastly tongue
approaching the Library of Alexandria protecting your secrets.
My
viscera seize peristaltically animal and I am marooned here on a wedge of
footing awash in the red sea falling around me in your erogenous gaze. The churn in you liquid fire in the twirl of
hair round your finger, bitten lower lip grinding me down in these sadden
cloven hoofs as if Athena could disperse me into nothingness with a kiss. The lithe bend in your smile woos an eidetic
vividness I can see your garden burgeoning in the flush from your mind down to
your clitoris engorging vulva dripping ripe.
The circus tent vaulted in an apex to the sun for the trapeze artesian
to leap above this lion tamer and fall into my arms, whip and chest hair you
slipping around me in lightness where the whole god damn earth cracks. The playground opens up like devil’s canyon
and we fall into the bravery darkness of what could be as if when we close our
eyes there is everything. Everything we
saw inside these mind theatrics lifting like Atlas and in control of the
seasons like Persephone, I can hold and you can inspire and I still have no
idea of who you are or if any of this real, just a factory of mental amorous.
Hemisphere 2
We
can speak poetry here, an orgasmic festival of what it means to be alive. Reliable ground and open sky, hungering
balancing polarity in a common atmosphere.
We root like varied pots and nook-gardens planted to encompass our
personhood. We have orchids and fichus,
bonsai, apples, and sunflowers each at different download bars of season daring
how does one let a person in to simultaneously orgasm with you in that spiritual,
emotional, and mental place and feel the universe rip apart at the atomic seams
and burst together like the fusion true intimacy is supposed to be without
revolt? How could the artist be
vulnerable in this personal way like letting a man come behind the stage of
your skin to see you as both fearless performer and fearful vulnerable human
woman without ultimately treating him like an invader?
How
does one picture being in life’s woods, thicket, brambles clustered in a
circle, vision available in shooting lanes of sight, slits of light through the
canopy overcoming the camouflage of quotidian monotony where the ivy tongued
invasive species of life mulch such a busy jungle. You feel to stay in this pocket of open
amongst the chaotic tree beasts and log exchanges to just be in this grounded
halo sanctuary. You know you are a part
of the forest; the forest is part of you; everything is growing. Somewhere inside you know the jungle does not
really exist. The jungle is just an
infinitude of other circles, beings feeling alone and together, connected, but
swollen with an antsy false isolation to where no one sees each other unless
they let the jungle in to grow roots intravenously in their bodily circle to
meld the self away diffused into the everything to be exposed and at the same
time embraced.
Sometimes
in all the vines and ant hills you see a person though a lightning bolt of
vision, you feel like you see them, really see them in a flash like none of the
thorns or quicksand was in between. The mind
space separating the chaos from the sanctuary of inside that is the circle
muted the world’s cackle to where the only sound one heard was the image of
another person staring at you for a lambently flickering sparkle. You swear you saw her. You saw it like a jaguar’s gaze from the
shadow knowing the beauty and the danger were right there lurking with love and
fear like a gush of saliva on an incisor for all the reasons a being wants to
bite into the flesh of another knowing the answer is all in the choice of
pressure applied, the point at which the biter does so to give pleasure or to
take pain. This is the nature of love,
life and a connection between beings.
This is the sapiosexual forest in which we are beginning to see each
other and yet blind. That line of sight
was a road, a path in that fecundity.
You looked like an opening to form a connection that registered
somewhere more than I dare say, but in the end felt like getting eaten. The mind is a house of mirrors, this space a
poet’s painted-word divinity evaporating in the realization that what one
thinks inside the other’s thoughts is its own bladed rapier of pornography.
No comments:
Post a Comment