Sex is a lot more than just putting it in the hole. As far as I can tell the whole world is dying. I think it’s strange how it’s all about me and my woes, my adaptation. My expression of the experience in the lair of her actual body. So there is a merging before the merge. There is a coming together from within. Don’t tell me you already know or you wouldn’t feel so sorry for me. You wouldn’t feel so enamored of my description of the foreplay as if you too aren’t engaged. I think it’s about being a better lover then, don’t you? Not lover like make me feel good, lover like make me know you. Of course. That doesn’t work until all the pieces fit. Everything opened inside, not only opened. Faced. Touched. Held deeply as personal. This suffering is the cupid’s arrow. You know the little love nymph with wings and a sharp object. Heart piercing. Is what it takes and it’s not like making love to this isn’t messy. And you want it clean, shaved and trimmed. I get the problem, I do. I feel the air getting thin. The arms getting weaker. I’m holding on crying into a body so much bigger I don’t even need myself to know how serious this is. How deep the love waivers. How breathing is only for me so I think I have somewhere to go. How arms are only for me so I think I need to cling to what I see. I am a sort of
emotional current, a thought fog getting clearer, a dense deep valley of time growing skin and nails. You see, thinking is grabbing for hope in this circumstance. And the point is missed, in love. The hole is much deeper. The entering one is much bigger. It’s so gigantic it’s violent. It’s so violent it’s quiet. So vast it’s hidden from us who still believe we are small. Small meaning we don’t think we’re ready to leave this belief. The belief that it’s too much. Who I really am once the hole opens. Who you really are once you’re standing erect and alert. These eyes. I have seen beyond them. Despite myself I have agreed to go to these places. You would describe them as hellish abodes. I would agree. I would say there is a purpose to this self imposed terror. The purpose is that all beliefs must die. Into her blood. With the moon slowly swimming. Against the tides. To find the lost ones. Inside. I hear everyone drowning. Slowly in me. Touching my sides looking for something, someone to hold or blame for the waves and the flames. But it’s me. Darling angel. You shot me with you’re sharp thing. You want this love. This quivering arrow, all of them stuck in me as I fall from the ethers with hell on my lips. At least to you it’s hell. Looks like dripping blood. It’s alive. All her woes aren’t forgotten. Sex. Death play. Life. Killing another. It’s for love or something that resembles movement amongst the slowly fading shadows watching their heart burst in the mirror of another. Ignoring. Scraping at body parts that will never cease. Not as long as we need them to believe in. I said I would hold everything in like breath as long as I could. Long enough to describe it. Know it. Make it love me back with a vengeance beyond words. With a self abandon so complete not only would I forget who I was but so would the big body. With a completion so  exacting it all would be over so perfectly. The ocean would stop and the sun could finally truly rest in me. Not as darkness, no. As surrender into the greater day. This day isn’t here. It’s there where the moon splashes and the flames aren’t trapped in a name called Sun. But are free to wander and forget they must be the one who shines for others. No, not others. Only the first touch of flesh against flesh. It’s the first touch. It’s not the last act. It’s before you thought you did something right. It’s the moving into what is left. What is left is me. Anything that is still crying, “more more.” You think orgasms are fun and filled with pleasure. It’s the final pain. Figure it out. It’s the only time anyone lets go. Agrees to die for only a moment. Well, you got yourself into a big mess this time. Don’t keep thinking it’s me writing it down. I am only describing the scene of the crime. The honeymoon. The last supper. Darling Cupid. So small you look harmless. But I knew. It’s my love you make so dangerous. It’s my purpose that feels so grief stricken. It is. It’s
the last night of forever. That’s what this is. When you’re struck through the heart of God. Nobody understands and they feel sorry for you. It’s really big, the religious belief that we shouldn’t suffer and if we do we need help. Suffering completes. As perfectly as you are. Sex beyond flesh undoes it all, to know you. And so I mean, it’s beyond what you think I’m doing,
me and my sad story. All the craziness of the words that conjure the images and moods. Undress beyond the dress. I’ll see you and my love for you in all things that move. Until we are still, I am inside whatever needs me to be. There with myself and with you. Whoever we are, so much bigger than pretending we aren’t dying. And if we are, we should be sexy. So deeply it’s pierced by my desire. The Eros of blackness. Erotic, supremely pure. Together hand in hand. Feel what this is. Forget what this is. Be what this is. Go and find what this is. Describe what this is. Make love to what this is. Destroy what this is. Wake up in my heart. Sharada Devi

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