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30 August 2013

Strange Dancers pt. 5

5. Supplicant

Aisha fucks in pornographic style
Legs astride what may be our own flesh
But to sleep-bleary eyes is as likely her own
Bronze breasted like a statue her patina is glossed 
Clarified as the sun returns to its office of
Eleusinian distinctions amid a fugue of hallucinations
Bronze skin aglow again with sweat as she fucks
Herself as she leaks coconut milk, its clear serum
Punctuated with white liquids somewhere between flesh
And fluid prenatal
Fist and forearm snaking into her depth
   Fuck you for making me do this 
She says
   I must fuck myself as I've no one 
   To do the favor for me
She says 
Pregnant and milk-breasted and as a hermaphrodite in dispute
Under the watch of the Mirage which creeps like night 
Around us blocking the whole of the sky save for
The punctuation of the sun flexing under its reluctant gravity
Its halves drawing apart a millimeter further with every crest and trough
Of our physical dispute with hands slapping and grasping
Slipping with sweat off the other’s body.

Under the watch of the Mirage which creeps like night:
   Here is your shame

Aisha impregnates herself, autosexual
Her cock thick and massive like a banyan trunk 
Turned inward upon the lips of her own wet space
Which a tangle of black wiry oilslick hair
At once conceals but compels notice
Adorning what must be hidden and unmentioned
Peace being never upon it in this land and it is
Her only weapon so she brandishes her pilose mound
Like razor concertina black with venom Aisha dares any other 
In her convulsions to take the place of 
Her own bronzed scepter, enveined
And it is then I see we are joined at the knees and 
Growing out of one another like mirrored images
It is I fucking her either prostrate upon her or on my back reclined 
But no ground forms a bed and we are aspatial
Only the position of our shared perception creates 
A horizon to which we may refer
Divorcing us from the possibility of masturbatory emission.

Aisha’s eyes crease in tortured delight
Her ejaculate covering our bared muscle and bones
Nerves resheathed in foundation but as we are
Made whole those three who complete our entangled trident
Find themselves ejected like splinters of sun above
It is a loneliness less strange than any company I have known.

This is a procreation beautiful even before the Mirage:
   It is vulgar

Aisha and I resplendent in orgasm as her
Pleasure milks supplication from I her partner
Our joinery all that separates us from the Mirage 
We are both besieged by this watching form:
   Holy though are we
   Loathe are we to admit
   Our divine arousal

Thus ends the image and the division of the world complete
Hewn by the fissile sun split now fully and our shade
In perfect accord with the boundless expanse of the Mirage 
Two suns overhead in darkening correspondent halves
Over this contested land and lightning brighter than the day 
Tears and grasps and slaps the neon ocean and beneath
These fissile streams of electric filaments I am
Dissolved beneath the sun.

This is apocalypse
This is apocalypse
There are reverberations of breath
This is apocalypse

And it is breeding.





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