an early writing about the presence of body and mind in MOOspace. it just about captures the feeling.
bra aquarium
There you go, that's it, everything crumbling apart in your fingers, just as you think it's solid. Not unlike marble smooth eloquently chiseled statue paled to ashed at your touch. Splinters of your unconscious knowing beam out illuminated in dreams. Why else were there earthquakes?
Tremors in the psyche. trying to shake you from distracted mind wand'rings.
And and and where was i? Something about washing myself in ashes, how odd, when instead here we are, resting on delapidated ranch home porch--that sometimes flies--after demanding rawness from each others flesh. I've asked you about the flames in your dark hair, if you set it aflame or if it is only this dim sun raging on you. An obscure question, i'd admit, if you pointed out, yet i somehow have to think about responding to your inquiry: why do i scratch my left shoulder when i'm talking to you. So my counterquestion. An itch /has/ appeared there, deep, along the shouler, as it always does when i'm lying, but i don't know what i've been lying to you about. I know what is truth, that we want each other, especially when pounding out grooves in that mattress, shriek of screamsprings, fingers indenting into arms, teeth flashing and flecks of blood a scent mixing with dust. It's cold here, and resting after after out wantings is more comfortable on the grimy floor, as if that burst greybrown mattress is only meant for one thing. Funny, i thought there was an oil barrel in here, with a blaze and billowing black smoke. Guess it doesn't matter much, still be cold. The goosebumps along your arm don't make me want to slide a hand over them right now, instead i'm pawing through crumpled packs of smokes to cure a sudden jones. So silent right now, don't know what to say, waiting for some small motion or sound from you to react to, start the circle of vocal shrugs. We've gotten what we've wanted from each other, now we look over our own shoulders. Never should make disclaimers for my hunger. Now where did that come from? All that fancified love talk, i guess. The balance between matter-of-factness and romance. Just throwing thoughts against
the wall of ignorance, the one that is there when aware of, not when not, in between free will and fate, independence and need. I wonder if there is a heaven, or real life, fit next to you in this jungle, on this thorn print burgundy chair. Clashes nicely, the wine and the emerald, blended with our pale with ruddy blush flesh. So close to each other that i have to reach out and grasp your hand.
tangle | writhings