poetOflore

Agustina Bazterrica’s “Tender is the Flesh,” sensual shapes, cyberpunk neon pastel lit contours, cheeks made for eating… My body aches, from age, from hunger, from years of simmering, my skin, my soul, my pen on fire, pulsations beneath the surface quickening, drumming animalism, ancient, beautiful, primitive, raging hunger within, famished, my eyes, in the dark, glistening static & electric I crave your touch, your scent, your lips, your thighs, your toes, your chest, your stomach, your spit, your shoulders, your neck, your back, your cunny, your cheeks, and the hole in between Dripping with devouring, my gluttony, wet with unanswered prayers and agony, the roar grows, deafening, my grip tightens, my fingertips tingle, breath comes faster, gasping, I long to long, to feel, to have, to hold, to taste, EVERYTHING, to devour you whole, if only, for a moment in the grand scheme, a simple, singular moment of otherness, where I can become nothing, devoured by my

My aging body betrays me. Stagnation and sweat hang heavy in the air, a metallic tang clinging to the chlorine-scented silence, old blood, breaking earth, and decay. A silence broken only by the drip dropping of a long forgotten broken sink and my breathing. Locker doors gape open like hungry mouths, revealing the emptiness of the apocryphal, post-apocalyptical, neo-noir solitude. Except for her. My amphora. She emerges from a shadowy corner, a blurred apparition, an ethereal conjuration, imbibing in and exuding strength, yet soft in definition. The details of her face lost in a haze of desire, anxiety, or uncertainty. I’m honestly not sure it was even there, and if I was, I would ask how it is possible to adequately describe a moment of last breath ineffability. Saint Neruda presents “Carnal apple, Woman filled, Burning moon,” dues ex machina. “Carnal apple, Woman filled, burning moon, dark smell of seaweed, crush of mud and light, what secret knowledge is clasped between

Synonymous with all emotion, natural evil, immorality incarnate, and the two primary motivators of human kind, I put SEX in my words. SEX with its sweat, its scent, its feel, its violence. SEX to quote Cohen, "The biggest baddest thing you can do, baby!." SEX with its taste, its absurdity, its death, its oblivion, its notions of sacrifice, one night stands, and drunken office romances insured by fidelity. SEX with it's stupidity, its intelligent creativity, and accidental vomit on a bouncing dick beholden by beautiful 3AM hooker eyes, that despite the grossness, despite the possible skin damage, her smile, her glistening, her shine, shine, her lovely, naturally sagging tits, makes you want to keep going. I put SEX in my words because that is how I sacro-contextually identify, because I breathe, because I'm alive. It's the first thing I learned in this life, the first thing I witnessed, not long after I first opened my eyes. There is some debate, both external and internalized, on

I live in myself. There is only one good film on, at any one time. The rest is scream queens, sex, suicidal ideation since eight, a self- actualized biopic acceptance of splatterpunk sense & non-sensibility most of my sighs are internalized, to some extent, everyone's a stranger from the street, who, no matter how many times I playfully plead, refuse to murder me in my sleep I live in myself. There is only one room that's clean, It's the only one for guests, it has a couch, chairs, nude photos of Roseanne Barr, and a tv. It's too dangerous to go anywhere else, even for me, I live in myself, and my self is in disrepair, unless you were there, unless you could see, but you can't, so like Baby Sinclair in Sartre's hell, "Gotta Love me."

I need a way to drain this rage. "Come on. Come on. Come on. Do you really want to fuck with me tonight" I'm not who I used to be, I'm not who I used to be, I'm not who I used to be. Has it become a mantra or a cage? I'm not who I used to be, I'm not who I used to be, I'm not who I used to be. This hate, this angst, this seething, sinking, chest beating, freakazodial, bloody rain pounding through the flesh of newish religiosity, what is it about the sound of your fucking voice? "I pretend to sleep at night, Just to hear your voice calling, I've been down this path before, Keep leaving wanting" What is it about your presence that ignites my righteous indignation, the arrogance of immortality that comes from ceaselessly streaming fury. Intrusive thoughts, under my skin, manic throbbing, wild & hungry, no body to believe me, because no one's left that remembers who I was before I truly began, and the I that I was, a shadow, a decimal of it's declarations and former damnations, wants

(Or, I like what I like until my last breath) Ah, like ease, like relief, like a cool, crisp, breeze on sun blistered skin, raw & pink. Ah, like a drink, like a breath, like a dream, to dream, to breathe…. mmm, to breathe you in. Breathe with me, fuck yes, that’s it, sink into it, onto me, my hungry breath, your body, breathing as I breathe, breathing in to you, through me, through my dream, I want you, to want to, dream with me. If it helps, heh, I’m smiling, breath caught in my chest, at the thought of it. Drink it in Dove, a piece of peace, “good girl,” written on her tits. She breathes. My face between your soft thighs, soft playful kisses on voluptuous paradigms, what even are you? Working up, as you lower down. Your uncertainty somehow, feeding the chest pounding, the fire, the complexities of desire. I want to, I NEED, need to feel, need to be free, to eat, to be eaten, to touch, the cessation of being, if only for a moment, by releasing, by breathing, breathing into, you

If you're looking to deepen your understanding, begin with Maundy. Gradually progress the sacrosanct cleanse toward the myriad tastes of heaven. Through whispers, kisses, hands, praise, and prayer, discover sacrifice. Pour over, wash over, bath in, graze atop, her skin, sanctifying every inch. Where does she end? Where do you begin? The hallowed ground of otherness, found within, touch, taste, sound, and wet moments.

It hit her hard. Threw her for a loop. Sent her into a spin. It knocked her on her ass, nip of blood on her red candied lip, nipped, she cradle my face in her hands, while grinding mine black circles under green eyes, staring into hazel wide, as she came, she asked in a whisper, "is this love?" "am I doing it right?"