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Strange Dancers pt. 7

7. Cadence

Mirage or not

 definite or not

 object or subject

 even It does not

 pretend to know

This Mirage 

 you'd not know

 until a chance moment 

 so only they are left

 presented in trespass

Those unskinned figures 

 redivided into themselves and playing

Naked and whole in the 

 waves.

Strange Dancers pt. 6

6. Respite

She finds me on the quiet and dark shores 

Which with no luminous crown overhead

Lets the fossils in the quarry walls

Remain in their calcified age

Kept from that same verdancy which this body too lacks

Without which I am made a sibling of these fossils

The shore has given up on me and the kneading sea

Reaches towards my stilled form

Prone and exhausted of motion

The tide knows only time stands before its claim.

Her hands find me in each space she assesses

Crawling up my calf and prodding my knee into reflexion

She seeks something I have lost or misplaced 

Within these confines her fingers trace a path 

Up my thigh and examine my pelvis

She is as rhythmic and measured as I am 

Unconsciously firm as always happens and

She laughs and clucks in Thai for she is not Malay 

Having been brought here as much for her skill

As the absence of inhibition which compels it.

I am transparent beneath her fingertips.

Her fingers find my collar bone and

Throat still stiff all over with locked nerves

She is tumbling through this labyrinth, me

Her fingers carve through knobs of

Unresolved days along the planes

Of fascia which hold me rigid

My whole body swollen with

Unwilled tumescence ready to be

Unstoppered.

Her fingers sand away unknot muscles 

An callused edge of her thumb is her carpenter's plane 

Its many decades, many they are

Her gravity at least as present as the lines which score her face

Wisely apportioned as she leans into her strokes 

She kneads a driving force as she planes me

Soft and level and smooth as though she knows my contours

She toys with my ears and brow

Her fingers explore my lips and tongue

Finding jumbled combinations which lock me.

She creeps into my cavernous mouth

One digit at a time until like a fish dumb and gaffed

Hooked in her grasp her hands caress my throat

From within and under pressure 

An ancient breath forgotten within me bellows out

Her elbows widening my jaw

My eyes flickering as she is

Surgical in her diagnoses

She slips into me completely and I am paralyzed

With another form fully within my own

I am the skin she wears as she unfolds herself 

Into my each and every limb and extension.

Her dive into me complete and

She seeps into my marrow

Her fingers dissolves and like

Gossamer filaments flow outward

Infusing intracellular space

Outward from my cells and in sweeping

Brush-fronds like coral feathers she sweeps me out

With gentle pressure she filters my blood with her

Ten thousand feathery implements as she breathes

With me she converses freely as well as those others who

Lie in remnant memory in myriad forgotten spaces 

Only she bears witness to those who were once company.

She withdraws slowly from this costume

She makes me breathe through the cramps 

Withdrawn she shakes off a magnetic ash

Of inorganic matters caked and flaking off her own skin

No baser denominations than these which from me she takes.

Her fingers probe my pelvis and

She rolls me over limp like a rubber mannequin

Face down flat and folds towels across my hind

She applies oils which glint of starlight upon me

Thighs and all and leans her whole self upon my

Unrepentant joints.

These joints pop and my inner atmosphere gasps

She reads the pressure trapped within my ears 

Behind tight ringing eardrums which remember gunfire.

A toe at a time under her pull

And she kneads me at the

Waist and runs rings around

My anus with the pads of her

Thumbs and loosens me slowly

At a wrist's depth I feel her caressing a 

Frozen bladder and stoking my liver 

Warming it and then kidneys responding

Slowly she untangles my lymph

Its rivers commencing to their tasks 

Of hormonal titration once more.

At an elbow’s depth her fingers appear 

Pressing outward within my belly

Reseating my sternum next as

Her second arm enters me

And gripping my ribs she pulls

Herself through stirring mucous finally

Wakened and viscous and warming

As her toes disappear within

My ribs are her ladder-rungs

Upwards into me and this tumescence

Is expressed in mechanical orgasm.

She is finished

I am emptied.

She trickles out in drops

Stringed together with a cohesion

Long absent from a disjointed

Narrative to which she has

Restored my faithful articles

And objects and refreshed the

Distinction of my subject

She withdraws and with that adhesive trail

Strings wet glimmering drops like stars

On that diaphanous veil which reminds

Her of her abandoned mythology and origin.

She maps me out plying skin with her palms

She spreads my scrotum between a thumb and forefinger

Reading veins like a fortuneteller

Seeking the cause of my catatonia.

Taking my limp stamen between her lips

She suckles me to stirring

She laughs and clucks and with two hands

Kisses my crown and shares with me in being

Newly rejeweled.

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.

Strange Dancers pt. 4

4. Witnesses of the Dialectic Convulsion

Here is a moment:

The sun splits in half above the recovering Mirage, each fissile

Drawing itself to full height and sending spindling fingers sunward

Its sloughed skin finally too thin, the solar corona absent

Its gravity finally defeated by its luminosity

It renders us bare of skin at last with atomic compulsion

Sundering magnitudes of astronomical space

It splits with a vacuous howl which only our eyes witness 

Blue sky bending to violets and reds in its wake, Platonic

But which all present, Mirage and subsumed populace and we four 

Cognize as though it is our marrow boiling

Our diatom-scoured trident fuses in fleshlessness

We are one now 

We are one

And as Aisha lifts herself to steadiness

She sees wind bluster ash-spots on the Mirage

They blend into a reformed perfection

Which seems now faded by its exposure

Less the perfect midnight shade it was formerly.

Listen: there are eyes upon us and

A flash throughout the sky is a

A rejoinder to the flickers of moments before.

And now we four who are one in fleshlessness

One body alone but strange inbound mingling invigorates us 

Within this body still is the shore and the argumentative ocean

In its final moments

A voice overtakes us, we friends of this one body listen:

   Is it true you are critical of us

Mirage qua Reporter beneath heavy glasses 

Like insect eyes and black shadows pulled into a balding crown

Its white prism gleam a shining head like waxed linoleum and liver-spotted

And we are in a space floored with hard carpets like sandpaper

A ceiling instead of a sky, and flaking asbestos tiles 

The fluorescent bar-lights having replaced for a moment the splitsun

A flashbulb recovering as our dilate eyes recover from its optic clap.

And now we four who are bound in fleshlessness

One body alone but strange intercourse invigorates us 

Within this body still are the sands and the ocean’s troughs

These moments are infinite as our end approaches

A voice overtakes us, we friends of this one body reply

In chorus we reply:

   For none born into submission to capital or chrism

   Nor those to a yoke empowered state

   Nor any less those who inherit the

   Insights and crimes of others

   Can we be responsible for them or

   Rewarded on behalf of those

   Secondhand efforts

We are returned to the shores which host our dispute.

The Mirage is upon Aisha as the sun continues its split 

It is as a jewel under a hammer, these suns

Laughter from the Mirage even as it coughs and sputters out

Whatever of Aisha remains within its depths 

As the sun cleaves its halves and shards

It slips and splits apart, spat words and cackles

Ensconced in a bestowed light from sweat and the fire which threatens

On naked bone and exposed anatomy beneath the fissile sun

At thirty three degrees above a gross measure of heat we smolder

Aisha’s breasts swell with milk, splinters of sunlight transformed

Her collarbone catches light as its spectrum shifts towards 

Unity whether indistinct or undifferentiated

The light such that even prisms cannot

Discriminate the content thereof

As such her sweat refracts only umbra.

The remaining strength of the sun’s halves 

Creating darkness as they radiate their last

Aisha’s body lit like brilliant oil, her brilliance

Pours from within her as she in her lambency

Divides the form of the amorphic Mirage, it courses 

Regaining Its mass of shadow even as

Its cohort threatens to be laid bare by 

Radiance which so tests our travelers' carapace 

And the Mirage’s thinning opacity.

In this solitary body

Four pairs of lungs will not help us cry louder

Eight eyes do not bear truth any better

Eight arms and attendant digits no better articulate

This strangeness descending from the perverse firmament 

Of our world our shadows have split and have we mimicked the sun

Its shards and glistening remnants slicing through empty space

Transmuted to milk in a lambent virgin.

The Mirage licks its cavernous buccal ingress

Seeking to reclaim its dissident emigre.