I lick your eyes so that now I have charged your sight.
I lick your nose so that now you will smell what I want you to smell.
I lick my thumb and wipe the dirt from your face.
This infantile need expressed in adult sexuality is the predictive compass of my entirety.

The rest I cannot vouch for.

I find no sensation greater than the enveloping dread found between existing and not. In this unrelenting slow grind towards not existing, death can be chosen or slightly avoided by precarious restraint. It is not a space with out walls but rather floorless in it’s immensity of the fall, an ecstatic drown, shedding civilized human interference to a base level of impulsive awareness, the instinctual, and the slightly learned.

The boundlessness of what I find in this solitude is considerable; it can’t experienced be with another. This lead-footed sink, deep into oneself, past being, illuminates the guttural of human drive. Yet In this state I find myself whispering names of others who unbeknownst to me, coalesce with my dark recesses…that fit “my death,” or rather, to be perfectly clear, “my dying.” They do not associate in waking movements, nor are they conversed with in verbal fashion, in fact it is those that I “speak” so little with…it is not my loved ones that I intersect with everyday in a negotiation of space and consideration. It is the ones that underneath the pleasantries and embattlement of co-existing silently pronounce a raw yet understood vernacular of loss and ravenous taking. It is with those that I will share my last moments of consciousness, those whom I will embrace even if facing away.

I have no name for this sensation, this peeling away of what culture has imbued, but I do know that it exists on the edge of an experience just as it throbs under my politely socialized surface. This profound ownership shared with something that I can never fully rationalize or understand is unmatched in its oceanic simplicity. There are no words, no entirety to return with, only a staggering, holding the promise of a fragment that survives temporality.

They came to heal me then blacked out the sun.

I have always been driven by the ecstatic and it’s intensity. Recognizable fetish is laughable parody in its commoditized re-selling of old symbols. Such symbols can do nothing more than nurture recollections, block possibility, and move desire with false pretense. The erotic is different though, (holding the intangibilities of sexual arousal and excitement), it refuses to flounder in parody, it is subjective, it re-invents fetish one impulse at a time.

 “You become part of mine when you do that…do what runs me flush”

That which is stirred in the smell left by my lover’s lips, red puckered skin returning pale, or subtle bruises under proudly dried fluid, tend to this wordless excitement. The drowning vulnerability that grows from honest gut wrenching desire can never be replaced in value or result. We can take our desires and build worlds around them; we can live in the temporality that exists between absolutes and define what we truly find erotic. We can, if we choose too, live in the dizzying moments experienced through raw necessity. We all have our own version of this, and importantly so. The individual expression of these needs runs the risks of humiliation, wounding, and abandonment. Often it’s safer to pretend, to act, to play out. Yet, to vie with the nuances and threats, to live in those oppositions, I know no excitement greater.

“To be 12 feet high and staggering.”

I am still describing, or, at the very least, how I exist you. Long after past. Still.

No matter how temporary.