Thursday, March 11, 2010

Sex Junkie

I am red.
The kiss of spring.
The arrow of possibility.
Churning below, dancing moths.
A hand duplicated, a grip of acceptance.
A flower. Could they say more?
There are no words. The mouth opens.
A coconut spills it's sacred milk.
There is nothing more to say with words.
The mouth has grown tired.

I am black.
I am moon light and bare skin against pine needles.
Finger nails and red highways on night's shoulders.
The snap and thrust and tumble.
Bestial incantations, the tongue of ancients.
It grows damp. Muscles tense. Depth is the game.
The drum beats. Syncopation. The pelvis pendulum.
Is he, is she, is it?
Lancelot and Guenevere hiding from King Arthur.

I am white.
The dusk of elation.
I am the greatest of whales,
And the farmer of genesis.
Adam and Eve.
But I am lost. Vagrant. Unwanted.
The music has stopped, the last note played.
The world sleeps and I am the soil.
Forgotten genetic phenomenon of daily occurrence,
Cast aside. Reincarnated as a simple fern.
They sleep and nothing grows.
Everything slows. The lens grows dark.
The credits roll.

To the beast this is too simple.
He craves. Like a starving boar.
Red, Black, White. It never could quench.
A million children of God, under a fiery sun,
A seducing moon. Ripe for his meal.
He claws the earth.
He eats, no devourers and yet is not filled.
He wants the whip and the chain.
He wants the knight and the maiden.
He wants the dragon's horde,
But he cannot rest upon it.
There is no eye lid strong enough.
There is no sand quick enough to lull him.
Eternal anguish and lancing fire. Loins ablaze, never resting.
He is a Juggernaut.
There is no red or black or white.
No dusk of elation, nothing.


  1. There's no sex in violence.

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