The jagged magnets of mercury retrograde.
Days before, the energy I'd been pushing around like a grocery cart rose and crested in a lovely wave.
It starts in a bar with a not so subtle glance. A sentence framed as a question. A recoil then a smile brought closer by gravity.
It goes and it goes. It shouldn't be this good. There is only a brief window of slanted sleep in between motion.
Again. In the middle of the night it begins again with a hard dick. Then a grip. A wet pussy. And the two converge. over and over again. I've never written about it that crude and simple. So how bout this:
I will not liken you to the stars. I will not describe two strangers coming together on this spinning wheel of clay to shape-form a series of pleasured faces eternalized and held perfectly in time by the lava of their volcanic kiln. The thing itself bubbling over magma upon itself. It is not me anymore. I no longer poeticize sentiment and ideal. I no longer play those keys of a morning songbird on this songboard. Still at night sometimes against all odds, we're singing.
