art is sex

art is sex

this is foreplay. arousal stimulated by

flirtation of ideas and an exchange of

vulnerabilities in the language of pre-

verbal space.

i don’t have to speak again. i don’t

need to entertain at this moment. i

am intoxicated with the pitch, tone,

and composition of your rhythm.

violets tremble at the edge of glass

unbuttoning tongues and uncorking

breaths. lips wrap in throbbing lyrics.

fire alarms may sound.

don’t run. this is not a cliff it is a

platform. it is a very intellectually

intimate fucking of [  ] senses. it is

the vernacular over easy.

[ ] art is sex. it has volume and velocity.

like a sweet and sugary cereal on sunday.

it is surprising just how little control we

have over something so elemental to us.

these vagabond rendezvous are like

secrets between silences. casualties

between catastrophes. i relish these

strange moments of [   ].

i am uncoiled between temptation and

trouble. i wonder, darling, if rain turns

to thunder or if, there was lightening in

the middle of the day could you stand it?

you kiss [  ] incrementally and unfold

soft affirmations as if still willing to

lay all mistakes at shaking feet and

outstretched charge.

to my left is a teacup. to my right is a

crucifix. ahead are tangled branches.

my fingers follow lines and form words

your jeans are nice. i like your [h]ips.

JANEisnotplain 12.10