Body and sand crystallize to sin, the dip of gentle skin, a curve to fondle, and now we've sunk fingers into folds.
We've become heirs to the Symbolic Order, and cut --
The camera slow-pans over pale thighs and to the darkened crevice of the entrance where her legs meet and the skirt conceals her secrets.
We're all stranded now, all flaps of licking tongues and eyes wet with juice and ooze.
[The Lacanian in me revels in the Triad of the Symbolic, the Imaginary, the Real as -- I speak this particular language with its rules and regular flow (its cadence), and the Imaginary, knowing full well that to converse is to sink into an accepted pattern of the understandable (what we call things matters to us). Only to push against The Real, which is the act of speaking itself, the surrounding field in which we are miles and miles swallowed within. And for what? For an understanding of who we purport to be, of how we can change, of how we spin webs around ourselves in this tangle of meaning.]
Come closer, you're dripping...
She beckons, lips licking across skin. She moans, digs nails into the bedspread, the blankets soft like oceanic clouds. And we sleep.
[To embrace each other, we must recognize the fact that we are the kinds of beings who embrace to show love, the kinds of beings enraptured by love and a million other things, always swirling, ever in flux. And to pivot, we step away from the habitual and shock ourselves into a new -- to us -- way of making sense.]
I've crawled deserts on knees and hands of stone, of dirt memories. Tear open the mouth. Grit teeth to speak truth as if truth is what is Real. What is Real is always beyond us. Yet, is us. She pulls me close, wrenches open my mouth. Cut --
The camera buzzes in the corner. There are films and films of our lust. We choose to dissolve, to rest within the dissolve. A grain of grimy film. A blurred softness. We become how we imagine the clarity to be presented. I open her legs.
I strip off her blouse.
It's still evening. And the music drifts on the wind.
Look out at the oceans, at the ghosts of who we thought we were. There is a wonder that caresses the back of my neck as I lean close to your orifice. And lap at your thoughts as they are fed down my throat in a secret kiss.
