It’s Not Love

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Scrawling black lipstick on her belly, I draw symbols that represent her sex and images of feral cats. She speaks of love, but my hands don’t care, they only have designs on what she looks like beneath those dreary clothes. Those breasts; how my mind races at the thought of what they get up to when I’m not around. In a bath of lukewarm oil, she slips in and sinks until only her nose pokes above the surface. With all my good intentions, I’m just a man, and a man wants only one thing when in the presence of a beautiful woman. You can talk about feelings, and you can talk about poetry. You can even discuss the arts and what it means to be alive in a world so demanding, but really, we just want to take control. To lift your arms above your head and make you gasp for air as we do our best to serenade and destroy in equal measure. We are bad machines, forever chasing our mechanical tails. In a field of oranges, I taste Jerusalem on innocent lips and marvel at the slaughter committed in the name of God. With every thrust of the blade, I grab my balls and sigh with my face turned to the sun. There’s one with a face I’d like to make my own, but writing these days is a solitary pursuit. Armed with only a single photograph, she becomes a goddess on the crest of a black and white wave. With eyes hidden and smile submerged, I write these words to bring her closer despite the walls of the world that inevitably confront me every step of the way. Lighting a cigarette and tilting my head to one side, there are images of her floating through the forest to sounds of Japanese Electro, but that’s another fantasy for another day. The animals are with her, though, just like they’re with me. They follow her deeper into the oceans of my mind, and as she dances, they dance too, lost and found and drunk on the fumes of fantasy.

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