The Erotic This

This:
The erotic politics of just remaining discernibly present to what presents itself as true and viable and real and possible in each moment that arises... Right before it falls away, back into that primordial void from which it came, and some familiar something emerges in its place (that is, every successive moment, moment and another moment and yet another still…)

This:
This is the beginning of something erotic, my fingers tap tap typing on a keyboard with an agenda: To explore the erotic with abandon, like clothes flung off of a body too weighted by civilisation’s distinctions of top halves and bottom halves, sleeves and sandals, broaches and belts. All the ways our bodies are subdivided become moot when these articles of consensual bondage are tentatively undone. We embrace one another to start toying with uncivilised meaning. Up becomes down, face to crotch, the impropriety of tongue to cock, fingers to cunt, arse to mouth, the eyes that gaze much longer on any given mound of flesh, or that remain shut so that the sounds we typically mold into words escape unformed from some wellspring of vibrations much deeper than our throats… somewhere guttural, gluttonous, gargantuan graceland of moans and yelps and squeals and sighs and we are mammals once again, Thank You Thank You Thank You Thank You for this Marvellous regression.

This:
That this is no regression… No… A prior vision has already structured and enabled this encounter in this incarnation (in words, electronic format, birthed from my fantasy): That we have already conditioned our environs with candles and fresh sheets and calm music (or heavy metal) and latex condoms and lube and drawn curtains and duly forewarned housemates and phones put on silent. This is the earth from which we have planted the seeds of two or more lovers whose time have come to sprout their shoots, dip deep their roots, and bear fruit in carnal convalescence. Lovemaking is the limbic pushed through and emerging, just as whole, but now wings to soar through the frontal cortices of our visionary ill-logic…

This:
The time after with which to reflect with one another on what has just occurred, through giggles and laughter and joy or in sobs or cries or sorrow, or perhaps just a blissful silence through touch... Or in dreams through slumber... (dreams of a dream that has just played itself out). This is the rapturous After, the Real tomorrow. We are grateful that we are alive to witness the gracious gift that we have been bestowed, the gift of this celebration of our bodies in song… Our only mission, should we accept it, is to ensure that the bed gets made, and honour that we remember one another’s names…