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The
Beginning of Fuck
I fuck all the dirt off of you:
under the snaky tree, ignore the seep of
squeezing sun, in the tree, reptilian with sinews made of
squeeze and coil, wrapped a word hard to utter inside your
open mouth, around your wet tongue, ravenous without knowing, bird wings
beating against each other on the same drab bird, whipped through the air
first angular and apart, looking for the mesh of each other, the
flight without flying, the random beats of fever's pulse finally
meshed, coils squeeze and seep below, arms sliding rough granules of earth from
us, we may be flying, here in this tree, under this tree, clean
and flying without song or word, a grasp for none.
Inside there is water:
holy water, salt water, water of life and
high tide, this water flies in our flight as our world rips through space,
we will die, things are invisible, now we know of things like water
within, the curse of the coil, beatification of body by another, rumblings
finally erupting, churches toppled, angels sent down from the bed, down,
down, into the water rippling through us in a race to the falls where
descent is forever over much too quickly, it is all a blessing, the hours
of fuck, tongue genuflections through sundial hours coils and courses,
skin clean by sweat, mouths open in silent song.
Drink of my water, as I take yours:
parched spirit refresh, heat of heat to
steam, lick the clean sweat, the holy water, thick foam coming like the
sea, strength of tide and then no more, warmth of the ocean within you,
under the tree, in the snaky tree, gush of your beauty slicks my lips in
the squeeze of coiling shade, song of the gush beginning, syllables of
sweat, mantra of moan cut abrupt as this tide of semen, trickling down
like your ocean to new dirt, angels fallen from bed, unmeshed into the
squeeze of a seeping sun.
trust
he wonders of her stillness:
is she waiting?
like spiderweb lightning
the touch of her acquiescence
open-palmed further into pleasure
her touch against his within
surprises then stupors
shortens his breath
lit sky a dozen times
what does she sense in the pause?
nothing exists, not a thing but her
and she only cherry red strokes
cheeks still half-crimson
he for a moment merely
hunger for her
poised, then free of pause
a dozen meetings, a dozen
senseless explanations
by moan and whimper
both together
held by little cries
all else stillness
the center of which is joy
now it can be seen
through their caution
kisses follow first to savor
the warmth to know her pliancy
revere her flesh
no longer either
allure or obstruction
no trick of light
the indulgence, the request
held in her round rise to meet his hand
draws him more joy he is
within her world thieved moments,
closer than he's ever been
to another
the real surrender
shoots from their center
into furthest dust
of each alone
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Contributors
T.
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Dorothy
D. Mienko
Christin
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Tate III
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Nights
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Fowler
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Clowes
Jim
Tilley
Patricia
Cresswell
Marta
Laura
Jim
Christ
Kemel
Zaldivar
David
Ayers
TE
Ballard
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