I remember how you tilted my pelvis 

and reached the basin of the slope 

you burst down me and slid into me 

It was like springtime to my body, I was new and perfect 

cleaned by the assertion of an overwhelming colour flooding my bothersome neurones 

Thank God - the colour of archaic sexual paradise, that specific colour 

the purest expression of every colour at once all plastered on the brain in perfect harmony - the humble, foundational perfection that keeps it all from spilling out 

Of course, when everything layered on everything finds a balance of Nothing - it will be understood perfectly and instantly by everyone, like the colour of death 

 

I remember how you tilted my pelvis to reach the basin of the slope 

and you burst down me and slid into me 

It was like springtime to my body, I was new and perfect

 

After we had thrown each other away several times, we decided we were due for a 24 hour vacation. We sat on the hardwood before a scatter of small talismans to eat Pluteus Salicinus for breakfast.  The valves opened in our bodies as scheduled, and I began to feel amphibious and playful. I wanted to slither around you and tighten myself. I wanted to insert my hand into the slick muscles of your mouth and fish around your teeth, all in good spirits. I saw that I didn’t have to be so harsh, and imagined I was a small monkey, and you were be a tree.  I wanted to climb up to find a cradle of humid shadow, and spend all time resting and pulling at fruits.  You are so clean, even when you’re filthy, you’re clean like an infant or a plant. Even when you trip and spill all over my feelings you are so clean. Not the False Clean that is broadcasted on television, but clean like the Sages (babies, bugs, elders, trees). They know you to be of the same sort as they. A song, perpetually filled by life. 

 

Little girl lost, heaped in a pile, skeletal with disillusionment. Little girl lost, all this drama has immobilized you, you’re sopping wet. You’re young but you look older your age, youth-glow diluted by habits and the exhaust of your extremism. He curls stories of jungle-vines and cobblestone into your ear like reeling canned goods down a well.  He claims to see the outlines of the maps you’ve been studying during your excursions in lunacy, and he believes you when you explain the creative intentions of your neurosis.

 

You wanted to open me and I let you have it. A few days later you thought we should seal the story. I opened and closed and opened again to your will, but not without tilting harshness in your direction and spinning you into a web of verbal dissections. I needed to communicate the inconvenience of your indecision. I predicted that you would, tomorrow or later, come to your senses, and set me off alone into the teeth of the world again. However my brain was dabbed with spore wisdom at that moment, so I forgave it before it could happen.

 

People don’t like it when you ask for things, they seem to think it is an indicator of poor character or an inflated ego - which I never understood. You often gave me what I asked for, and you were resilient. You had a sturdy protection from empty traditions and falsities. When I got too bundled by my inner workings you kindly deflated me, surrounding me with little bells.

 

Remember the time in the big city when we were so confused by everything going on, and you tried to toast bread without a pan on an electric element? I probably wagged my watch in your face, and reminded you that the world is unforgiving of our tardiness and deliriums. Later, in another city, weaving wide-eyed down Saint Laurent, everything you pointed out was interesting. You were noticing the invisible patterns of the city, you lent me your peculiar clarity. My sandals broke downtown and I bought some ridiculous red plastic boots to replace them. We scaled up the green steeple of Mont Royale to a high vantage where we could watch molecules twist in the violet sky. I swung my legs and clacked my knees like a cowgirl rag-doll. Violet and bright red are so exquisite together. Accordingly, I was reduced to a violet brain atop red plastic feet. I want you to put your fingers in my mouth. Today I am obsessed with the symbolism of the mouth. It seems like a door to some kind of crossover.

 

My soul flits around the figure of my age, too slippery to catch in a numerical costume. 

You fit when I feel aged and clear, and also when I feel like a girl still untouched by the bruises of public school. There is no linear logic in this story, forgive me. Only night butterflies of batting against memories of sensation. I’d rather be a tree frog than a TV star but I am neither, I am somewhere in-between. Since I am in-between and unfixed to either extreme I’m unbalanced, like a molecule with a free limb. There is a vulnerable entry point which hungry things rush to exploit. 

 

I have a terrible fear of corruption. It hides in my shadowed parts and bears itself dreams or the shrouded origins of my motivations. I’m scared that all the pure and good of the world will get contaminated by cheap toxic falsity. I’m scared we won’t be able to stop it before it infects all innocence. I solemnly know that if this paranoia were to materialize, I would not survive, or I would have to completely reinvent myself. If innocence gets poisoned to the degree I fear it could, this version of Me would certainly drown or check-out.  So when a man like you comes around, and you do not condemn the orthodontia of my heart, and your insides are pure like a child’s, and your patience is well ripened, and when I want to play you let me and when I want to work you help me - naturally, I wish you would stay close by. Maybe I think I will be the first one permitted to pass to the Higher Lands by piggybacking on another. My subconscious inconveniently insists that the saviour must be found and seduced into possession. I try to dispute this, but it insists, showing me diagrams and statistic which document how the stains are always spreading.

 

Your seed is crystalline, seashell, the purest of pure; I wish it would rinse me to oblivion. It’s likely, by now, that you’re fastened back to your practical wife, and our encounters are just ecstatic mistakes on your shelves. I wouldn’t know because for some reason we don’t speak, and we don’t speak about why we don’t speak. I don’t know if you have established conclusions. The thing is, I forgive you already and regardless, because I believe that you are clean inside like a plant. The torment you conduct in my pelvis will eventually be dispersed when I stumble into the next opportunity. Alongside my frustrations, I understand that things always change. 

 

I trust you, even though our recent voyages defaced the traditional image of ‘trust’. This trust isn’t groomed properly enough to show it’s face in a courtroom, but I believe its integrity nonetheless.  The things I trust tend to be invisible. I fear that if I begin to compartmentalize based on thoughts and words I will jeopardize myself in the intellectual abyss, where things can’t be seen clearly as they are felt beyond their bodies. This would, of course, invite the tricks, misinterpretations and manipulations of the Brain and the Word.  Through the eye of my heart I know already — but regardless, I’d like to hear how you rationalize our delirium. 

 

Back to a tangible event: we were dancing in the kitchen and I longed for the freedom to seduce you. The rooms we shared were stuffy from scoldings of guilt and justice, and still we felt our way to each other.  “Lets have a bath” I told you. “I often bathe with my friends”. Wouldn’t it punctuate things, to seal ourselves into the worlds most gorgeous bathroom, and dissolve into water, spore and melody?  Nothing erotic,  nothing that could slip into the unethical.  I can be pleased by your skin without needing to catch it in my mouth, I can trickle my yin towards you platonically. My uterus shook her heavy head.  In the bath: your foot is touching my thigh, and everything is technically fine — but behind games of appearances and shapes you’re already inside and all over me. You said it was one of the most sensual evenings of your life, though no fluids were exchanged. You said it was a miracle you didn’t pour your seashells all over me. The fantom of that sentence still floats around my womb.