Everybody knows what it’s like to create an artistic moment because it’s really just heightened humanism. It’s just a heightened human language. If you’ve spent a night making love, you know exactly what it means to strip your ego down where you are there expressing yourself, wordlessly collaborating on a moment. That has an energy about it that is… replenishing or even completely inspirational in a way you could never imagine. That’s the way art really is.
When sex becomes a production or performance that is when it loses its value. Be mutual. Be loud. Be clumsy. Make noises, be quiet, and make a mess. Bite, scratch, push, pull, hold, thrust. Remove pressure from the moment. Love the moment. Embrace it. Enjoy your body; enjoy your partners’ body. Produce sweat, be natural, entice your senses, give into pleasure. Bump heads, miss when you kiss, laugh when it happens. Speak words, speak with your body, speak to their soul. Touch their skin, kiss their goose bumps, and play with their hair. Scream, beg, whimper, sigh, let your toes curl, lose yourself. Chase your breath; keep the lights on, watch their eyes when they explode. Forget worrying about extra skin, sizes of parts and things that are meaningless. Save the expectations, take each second as it comes. Smear your make up, mess up your hair, rid your masculinity, and lose your ego. Detonate together, collapse together, and melt into each other.
Is that what it is?
It sounds like some sort of
The white patches that bloomed into orbs on your skin
Just on the crest of your chin
And one below your naval with a diamond within
They each have their own character, and shape, and stance
I think they grew before I knew you, but they’ve always been there since I have—
I see the outlines of myself reflecting in the depths of your brown eyes
They say so much, while your lips comfortably rest together
Everything. is better. when we’re together.
And I wish that something as “logical” as distance
Wouldn’t dictate our existence
But after three years of conviction…
There are so many questions we don’t have the answers to
And we’re so young, so many people tell us too
I can’t even cry without you finding it—
Because as the blood vessels expand, and deepen with red, the compliments of the green, is obscene
Or at least you think so,
So, despite our greatest efforts, the sickness never recedes it continues to wash over us together, and its hard to sea us ever unentangling, the depths are too deep, and they look far bluer
The lock and key—
that fit together so convincingly
And yet there’s more, there is competition— and perhaps even allosteric inhibition
Competitive inhibition – competition.
But can they really compete at all
Did they even have a chance
They fit in some way or another, maneuvering themselves—
Striving to make a connection
While eventually they are over taken—by an increased concentration
occupying my thoughts day in and day OUT, is it worth the—
what is the point of obliteration when no one can echo the verisimilitude that persists and establishes its power without relent
over and over and over again
woke up this morning with the overwhelming urge to own a seahorse. wtf. haha