He sits alone, the air is yellow-white and old and 3 'o' clock in the afternoon, as always. He lounges in the musked, arid, splayed-open book; he breathes, derives truth from a netted flock of birds that are all truths, he knows beauty in the soft slight bosom of each bird, the book is a woman and he knows, and the knowing is brutal, is beauty, beyond the slate-dappled shadow of the bird, un-netted. The knowing is the butter-giddy corona around its slender, sleek head: its eyes are like holes into somewhere else. It moves in quanta; up trees. Stop.
Music holds my head in its hands: its long fingers cup the back of my skull, stipple-press, the rounded sensual curve of the bone underneath, its thumbs hold close behind my ears. It pushes my head back - firmly, but without violence, at least this time - and I look for a moment like a saint in ecstasy? deus spasm? It presses its tongue down on my mouth, through me, to some quiet-dark hole behind my heart. That's what it feels like, the invasion, the call to push, bodily, into the world; to need to dance. Possess me.
We lack exorcism in a dark room. Your claws are deep-caught in the flinching muscles of my heart.
I breathe deep - I forget that I care for you. You fuck everything up, so I can forget: cold-numb, deliverance. I fall back into the machine and live in the gears. Deus ex machina. A peace so seamless it's like being happy.
We are all one piece. We are all blood. We are all water. We are all dreaming.
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