Physical pleasure is a sensual experience no different from pure seeing or the pure sensation with which a fine fruit fills the tongue; it is a great unending experience, which is given to us, a knowing of the world, the fullness and the glory of all knowing. Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet.
Tongue, you are my Mother
I am my language, lingua madre, matris lingua
my name, my real secret name
without the word, another I would be
tongue, my sensuality
if I lick the nipple,
suckle the teat
smell the skin, the milk
while I recite the word
faster and faster, silently
is it my mother's nipple
my lover's nipple
the great extended nipple of life
or is that a fictional trope
there is no nipple
no word for it
#Pain After It’s Gone
What if Love is the opiate of the masses?
What if Love is the revolution and its own repression by its own status quo?
What if Love is not all there is? Then what is? Does it already have a name?
What if we’ve made a new religion of Love and it doesn’t make any more sense than the old religions?
What if Love’s got nothing, got nothing to do with it?
What if what we take for love in dogs is genetically imposed blind submission to the leader of the pack and we’re all dogs and Love is the leader?
Or there is no love and no leader? No Big Brother of Love.
What happens when we find out that God is not Love, Love is not God?
Wait! Am I confusing dogs and gods again? Or Dad and gum?
Or dag and nab, which are Danish for should we or should we not
Felicity's arms are cross-hatched from the elbow crease to the palms
White with rough ridges of double skin, over soft white underskin
She doesn't necessarily wear long-sleeves to cover the pain insignia
They almost hurt me more than they hurt her now-a-days
I feel her scars in some way as my own, by caesarian section
To some degree those of all the ones I love, inside and out
Perhaps of all the primal screams blaring around the world
All the love of pain since the viper stung Adam
Bosnian bodies scraped across my living room floor
Indian rape-victims as names of state capitols
Eves stabbing me on every evil street corner
So, why'd they drink the Kool-aid at Jonestown?
I collect this pain throughout the day
In a cloth satchel grandmother sewed
At night metamorphose it into scars
To wear on my chest like medals
To show the world I am in the middle of life.
# Yes We Can’t
We can’t afford the revolution
not that we have something to lose
our houses in flames
we’ve seen this film before
there ain’t no happy ending here, amico
we can’t afford a reform
not that it doesn’t sound great on paper
change a few numbers for
the desired chemical reaction
we … the ... reaction
we can't afford moderation
sitting on our hands until both
hands butt and mind sleep
tingling that never becomes
an itch irrepressible
slip sleep to death
hurry, the ice is melting
slavery on the rise
I could but I have to meet
my lawyer for advice.