15.Aug.2001

tell me you want

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Aeroplanes scraping the above distance, their shadow-bellies making shapes across the evening grass, sticky heat meets lucent aridity. Five years have passed and the moon wanes. The sound of crickets and Summer and water and cars on the pavement, the clouds illuminated by a half-arc of light, hastily moving to blanket and re-blanket the earth, rocks shape my body around them, silence. Silence like being watched, like being told, like being there. Being. The ground knows no iniquity and knows no heart, there is only this, and I want the sharp assault of grass-scent as your lips strike mine, and I want to be covered by skin-salt and then torn apart like my blouse. And I will do it freely, regardless of the tormenting eye. The past is the past, the future is my blouse, the future is the grass, the hot stain, the snaking breeze, the nubile flesh-tide, your lips.

Tell me you want. Tell me you want this. Tell me you want. Tell me you want this.

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time & machine