Thursday, July 16, 2020

Particular Ecstasies

My tongue is another country. Behind my teeth, gods rage. Just before dawn, in clover under the apple tree.

Salt licks. Troubled dreams.

The outlines of an alien mythology for you.

Sunlight burns the mist away and the horses plod slowly into shade where the pasture is within pissing distance of the river. Nothing confirmed, nothing denied. 

Nothing given.

Religion will not survive. Cookbooks will survive a while longer

Even now you are a dead thriving.

In order to understand desire we are first obligated to manufacture an object. Please reread Ecclesiastes, the Gospel of John, and Watership Down.

Giving head to beggars near the quay (and why).

Apocalyptic slip-ups. You graze your nipples with the back of your fingers, moaning a familiar beloved moan. What we discover when we allow for particular ecstasies. 

Recklessly poetic in you. Coming in you, crying out in you, becalmed in you.

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