Push harder.
It’s the cork that keeps us from negotiating.
It is the hip lashes that are bound to the wall we are trying to move.
Like rippling beasts.
This will evolve.
Each revolution around a pixilated world are just metaphoric steps, aren’t they?
Because no one really moans like that unless they know someone is listening.
I was listening.
My body is foreign to me now. I am in a new birth.
I am fascinated with the way my stomach dips in on itself when I lay on my back.
Come. Let me show you how new my fingers have learned to see.
I am a pool. I am a spring. I am a bowl. I offer milk on my skin.
Come drink at me.
Then we can run hands on foreign bodies and make sense of the new curves and make new the old ones.
It would be new to see the tragic swash of red smeared high up your lip and on to your cheek. It would be new to see strange eyes and strange hair framed below my strange body in the half dark.
Strange pieces with rough to smooth edges making shapes with precise intention on a thousand count canvas. Milk. And Spice. And sweat.
The only thing that is the same would be the knowing. Maybe the desire. Maybe the sound. And the scents.
I was listening.
But was it real? Can you summon your talent at will?
This will evolve.
It will evolve.
We are base. Like the asphalt.
And she is light.
Like fire.
Like Life.
We are the frauds that face ‘perfection beyond ourselves’, crying.
Licking at one and others bleeding feet.
We gnash and twist in carnal dance, all woe and regret
And she is amber golden drops of yes in crystal flutes held high, like a fist.
And silver hue in lightning blue shot across miles and miles of now.
We are led.
Led by our noses to slaughter, as we force confession on velvet walls in our heads.
Prying at the screen, with our eyes, to see who we must kill to save our dignity.
And she is dignity, dealing tarot cards face down, from a stacked deck while laughing and crying,
She sings to us.
She sings that we are just the masks at the masquerade ball.
And she is the sex hidden beneath the steps of the dance there, pausing briefly to assure us that we are better players in this stage of our lives than the actor playing us.
And then she pulls back the curtain and shows us the father.
And I am John the Baptist.
Headless.
A fool.
And you are roman swords.
And we are cups that brim with almost wine, spilling over and staining our fingers with almost time.
Brushing at our eyes.
Blind with story and little else.
And then we know who we must kill.
The player.
The player.
The player, no more.
We are lead.
And she is alchemy.
Inches above the ground.
And gold. ¶ 11:09 PM 0 comments
