slush puppy

Sluice ratchet hard-on tweak

I can’t live up to your fantasy of totally obliterating everything there is. I can’t be what you want me to be, if you won’t let me. But I will get colder, I will get more sour, and I will get slicker, like an eel; you will want me, more, I will win, and I will dominate you. I heard you need that. I heard you need to be undressed. Until you’re splayed out, like a fishbone.

But I know you. I know you’re out there, waiting, and I know what you wait for. Musk and ambergris, the marine-like burst of genius – you want to swallow brilliance and ejaculate it upon the world. You want the pulmonary morphine to wake you up. You want some kind of self-affirming proof. But it’s not coming, it’s not coming, and sadly you know that – yes, what a flimsy fantasy, it’s all normal, all the same, I know you and I know you’re alone, eyes closed, seeing visions; plump melons in the field & the opiate dusk, but we’re really here, darling, and have you noticed – ? We all feel the same regardless. So you can sleep in the fields or you can sleep with me. It all falls down the same, really; your tired face mashed down in the dirt. 

And you leave a solo mark like a white hole. 

Do you know that feeling when all the details merge into perfect alignment? and they are sudden & in motion, and the past is so intense that present life becomes real again … and the world is quivering as your delicate partner, and every way in which you touch her you touch her right, so she stretches with a sultan groan. It is glazed with burgundy – your hand beneath her blush, spilled wine & smashed fruits – her pleasure is so present that it’s violent, the earth and sky are bruised. 

This is that slickness that descends upon me, the violence of the rich and sickly. This is that violence which we need. Blistered with steam and pumping pistons, I offer you that: industrial sex. Bleached whales at the storefront, washing in charcoal, and all of us forlorn here, dreaming of a life.

22YEARSLATER:

(I mount the blue foal. What an expressionless animal. Standing knock-kneed in the orange bulb of street light, her head limp to the floor. My palms catch the blueness of her fur. We shut down for peace. Twin states of catatonia. The blur descends, winter’s flurry. I am in front of a young death, now, darling. At this level you have completely abandoned yourself. I know that the horse moves with me. I take her to the night market. Flushed out in the fantasy of bodily awareness, her ankles bow, and I am left in the burrows. I am lonely. Therefore, I am safe. 

I think you are missing something.)