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Love and Death as Usual
The Lovers are looking at themselves in themselves
looking at each other. They are very good at that.
Higher in themselves, they make promises in heat
if not in blood. If anti-Romantics are called sour
old pricks, then the True Believers are truly
warmed-up cunts. Simply choose your parts.
Most of your life you spend alone. Together
with someone you are alone with someone.
Which is better. Or maybe not. To each his/her
own. Then Death is a naughty fellow. Madam.
Death comes out of your liver or your breast
or piss-eyed drunk in an loose Commodore
or in bad wiring. When Death comes for you
it is for you alone. Death isn't into Swingers.
Their God tells them sex is sinful
but not why they will like it so much.
They are calm but inside they are praying
very very hard. They want to have sex
very very much. Sex rushes through them
from their backs to their fronts as if
from the invisible to the visible. If only
it stopped halfway, they could enjoy it
and no one would know. The man's bits
are worse because they take the visible
to laughable literal lengths. Some men
are length, and have to pray at length
to keep it long and deny it as it shifts
back from visible to greatly invisible
in her largely hidden hot invisibility.
God should let them be as his lovers
all have been: over aware of themselves
while lost inside their over-awareness.
No. God loves paradox more than sex.
There were three of us on a building site
after the scraping and lifting has happened
enough to stop, some law of time passing
through the guts of the workers we didn't
understand. We were still only fourteen.
One man was still there, his hard hat on
his knee like a toddler, and telling stories
to the older children, us, a man who even
to us seemed too simple. He probably was.
That the world was full of simple people
we didn't understand. Time had stopped
passing in his 'how you do it' anecdotes
of fucking women: this is the one rule of
such encounters, one thing that kept us
still, kept him teller to his little audience.
Who knows what he knew. We afterwards
remembered only one thing that he told us:
when you feel like pissing you pull it out.
But the next events were missing, mainly
because he never told us, and so we didn't
know if we would suddenly piss ourselves
or this other thing would blow out from
inside us, a sexual absence, an empty space
our hard little learning penises would fill,
or not. We could still feel that emptiness
beside her hip, that woman, or that girl,
where the chute of our invisible moment
there into the ordinary and air and earth
lay open like a box, open in strangeness
and ignorance, and everything stopped.