Not Machines



3 am. Bodies in flight. Stomach ulcers and the look on your face without make-up. Lifting up your shirt I slide off your bra as if it were made of leaves. There are certain things a man needs to do, even if he has no idea why he does them. Chemicals to bring us together. The fear of unbecoming to keep us holding on long into the night. A nightmare in neon-tubing as we spoon. Something malevolent as your fingers go round in circles upon my belly. Towns of old bricks and damp fields. Your touch is enough; it pushes me under as you struggle under the weight of your own expectation. The world isn’t watching. It doesn’t care. Just be who you want to be and live while you can. There’s no trick to being. No secret formula. Kiss me. Fuck me. Smear paint on canvas and write words without fear of repercussion. No bullets for brilliants minds; no salvation in the kingdom of God. Just breathe and speak- that’s about it. Come undone- become one. No statues, only lovers clinging to freedom as the world seeks savagery. No, not the world, only those that don’t understand themselves. Only those ridiculed by their own sense of worthlessness.

8 replies »

  1. There is an edginess in your writing, a feeling of restlessness and urgency that keeps pushing the reader to go on, move forward, a sensation of about to fall but no falling.. great work.. πŸ™‚

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