How can I fix the extent
of love's most carnal expression,
of the beauty of bitmaps on my back
as I arch over your most bucolic, sonorous climax.
Each tile in your kitchen
was somehow illusory
[architectural fantasy of naked bodies on the kitchen table]
from the perspective of foam, everything was submersible
I made myself explicit in body and implicit as a function
of that whole cosmogony you used to penetrate me:
without wings, shields, or apples (...)
and even so, we were archetypes.
If Proust had seen us fucking,
your tongue would have lived on
as the paradigm case of memory.
An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, but individual, detached, with no suggestion of its origin [ ]
No comments:
Post a Comment