mercredi 16 mars 2011

Sākṣin, The Wetness Self

Must have gone touching myself.
Woke up with fist around, clutching the chub
Exploratory thumb slid into moist pocket. Myself
Intermediate, happy digit then traveled to the nose. And
Mouth. Insert the opposable, a giant leap backward in evolution.

But smelling and tasting that
Serious syrup still very myself. And
Nothing else but myself, not the slightest
Arousal, no elsewhere, no
Parasite lingering
Broker sleaze mongering
In that trade no one else has a hand in.

No residua of luscious yore? Save that little deposit
Of goo. How did I get there? Apewards?
Had to pipe dream about a little more than myself
In order to be so myself―until daybreak’s
Pragmatic clean-up. Now
Not even the vestiges of a sweet, thrilling story
That would have featured a little farther than drowsiness.

No mental scenery available
That would have justified. Yet, like civilization, a
Palpable turgor historical holdover of a bygone paradise.
All gone, babe, all unverifiable, except via
The self-assurance that ambrosially
Regressive exudes of one’s own.

Sure, looks like it came unasked for.

This is life, man, go and finish your awakening!

March 14, 2011

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