25.May.2003

i feel so horribly sensual

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my body electric

It's 4:01 in the morning and I crave teeth clenched around the straps of my tank-top; I desire sticky breath against my collar bone, and a hot voice at my earlobes.

Everything has shuffled into a state of imperturbable repose, as everything is wont to do at four in the morning on a Sunday. I do not feel invincible so much as I feel serene, yet hotly stirred beneath the surface. This house is mine, and I wish to fill every room with murky lust; boundless, slick, and musky release. I want a tongue pressed flatly against my shoulder-blades, and fingernails found deep into the nape of my neck.

--

I have a dramatic and turbulent relationship with poetry; as time descends, I have come to shun and doubt my own ability, and I am equally wary of others. Amidst my collection of previous, literary flirtations, I found this and re-faltered:

The expression of the face balks account;
But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face;
It is in his limbs and joints also
it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists;
It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees�
dress does not hide him;
The strong, sweet, supple quality he has, strikes through the cotton and flannel;
To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more;
You linger to see his back,
and the back of his neck and shoulder-side.

Whitman is metaphysical gravity, though caliginous sometimes. I am taking these words to my sheets, with my electrified flesh.

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time & machine