(tekstbron: not applicable)
Day. They worship the sun on a terrace.
The chimes of the seagulls tears off the skirts of all the women.
The men kneel and lick. It waits.
Night. Finger the singing edges of the moon.
It won’t be long before she comes. Her dainty shoulder curves.
Her sigh is childhood grief, she says.
“My sigh is childhood grief”.
The sound streaks out bitterness in bloodlines,
in dull clots of dust. Clarity. Here is ‘I’, there is ‘you’.
‘Dog’ barks the dog. ‘You’ says the I.
‘We’ beg the thighs.
It drips and he smiles. She hits him. Slashes of stink
to him, naked thanks for her. Perfect.
The chest is too narrow, the pain becomes a we.
“Two bears, two hearts / two breads, two gents / on the string of the knife”.
A fat drop of ‘us’ plunges into the dust.
Return the shiny hair. Defecate the deficits.
Murw the gastric mucus down to the gut of compulsion.
Ha! Astral canal. The star’s beak opened with flaming drool spraying. Praise us for we have uncovered the gift, lord.
We caress the frayed edges of the hole in the bleeding holes.
It drank beer and future with them on a terrace.
Open the fold in the truth. Something is hissing. Each transversal ends on sssst. Dadam dadam dadam dadam ssst. It intertwines, culminates.
Equator. Equate her. Waves of maggots come loose from the black ceiling.
You will never get out of here.
Intervene. Modify. Make a gradient ring.
Stick her inside you like a wee-your-bone.
Let her wiggle her body, finger and razor.
Let her lick, bite, jerk, push, do the math, do the math.
Map the count on the movement, rhythm her.
She throws her body in their wheels with love and all.
Eels harden, tentacles embrace.
There is no more out to this in of us.
The soul is fucking the soul.
Fleeing repeats the sigh.
The Last Supper is the table of two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two… Do!
Stack overflow. Game over.
Now is now again and here and naked.
“You are too late,” she says.
“I am too late,” he says.
“What did you expect,” I say.
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