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the ductile moments full of the scent of sex.

Well certainly it affects us all in velvet lines and nails dug into palms and heights drawing us to their creeping, gorgeous edges. That final appointment trembling inside our fragile masques. This is where you are. This is what you have left.
Courage as plagued and futile as fear, dignity an un-credible, absurd end point.
The words as pale and as oxymoronic as a just war or a healthy wound. Asking and questing, snatching at our clothes, comfort me comfort me share this with me, oh you must feel what I feel. Here, I’ll take your hand and push with painful strength to the muscle and bone and webs of red red flesh stringy and old. My words are nothing to the swollen mass in my chest.
Dipped and silvered with simple kindness and past love. If only to hear the morning in the ductile moments full of the scent of sex. When we lay giggling like children and sounding sane and just like humans, just like anyone, like anyone, like everyone else.
We shall never say time on our hands again. Brittle and small like the singularity of your throbbing appetites. After the fall. Yes.
Time on our hands is time IN our hands. Remember this, swept up in the kleptomaniac present. Hear it ticking behind you, within you rehearsed and constant in any heat you can find.
Imagine the shocking thrill of your parents’ eyes locking for the first time. Entwine your consciousness with the first moment that you saw, breathless and startled, the beauty in your reflection.
I want to share with you so much, so much; my heart is boiling full of knowledge, in a river where blood is born, an ivory string, a floating spinning ball in an ocean of involution, seventeen syllables holding the world clenched in vehemently, intensely ALIVE wonder. Both faces of Janus for me, for you, a dark and hungry god. A broken white abacus furiously calculating, but such wonders oh such wonders to share. And these old wounds, deep and real and crusted with scars as they are, it is these that have created us, burned us out from the husks that we were. Phoenix mother, hands like clouds.

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