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An introduction (propylon - questioning)

They are a corner 

a meeting of bodies, of synapses


of fast fluid lines brought to a point

a site between posts

a simultaneous love of two people

shaped with bricks cement plaster adobe  

washed shades of blush.


A sudden rush of blood to your cheeks.

Take my hand and run with me, out into the plains. 


Are my insides different from yours

is my intention different

Do we not all ache for disruption, to be shaken by the earth 

to hold each others scent between our painted fingers,

and dance in the fires we have lit.  

What are my desires for you?


what are my desires for myself? and why do you call them ‘un-natural’?

how do we meet? do we shake hands, or genitals, or press our souls together hopefully

meeting our walls to assemble ramshackle buildings

holding tight against beatings.

Do we cling to each other in dark recesses,

beside the sludgey banks,

all the while ignoring ourselves as temporary 


all caught by the same wave


what angle do I make 

how do the tracks meet and where

is there bias?

do they lean and sag, 

bend brace

or find themselves crisp and polished. 

direct arrows, orderly cleaving


love is a game for the generous

for the self less


I stand both on the ground and in the sky, 

laughing gently at a joke I told myself years ago. 

I wish to be swallowed, 

to be taken in the heavenly mouth and pushed sweetly into the throat

the above 

to touch the shivering walls of primordial fathers gently with my shapes 

the throat a propylon 

gleaming temple entrance.

We hold both the desire to be bound and unbounded

the inside with the outside

contradiction flowing 

both at ease and jostling red faced

teeth grinding 

finding comfort and arousal in the heat of friction 

testing the water with my right hand, 

the swing of testicles beneath viscose


Show me your inside. 

your dream 

towards liberation from 


conscious choice. 

Drawing my own lines 

despite fear and risk and 

desire to be desired.  

A polite gesture and crude subject

I’m sorry this seat is taken 

This is my space my visibility my desire my need my existence my ego


a safety knife 

a ladder in your stockings slowly unravelling on the bus,

a class c narcotic 

a state of motion pushing in all directions


through the matted hairs on my thigh,

breezing up my skirt 

along chattering city streets

hurtling down blackening tubes 

and into the bent sightless line of obsidian ocean. 


It doesn't look like a curve 

but it is. 

My eye cannot see it but I know that it is there, because you told me so. You showed me so. And I believe you.

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