Contributor: Kevin Maus
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--with a textual rendering of A. Alzona's painting, “The Lovers”--
The mouth like a temptation. Her face a secret joy.
Lights flash out and limbs extend, reaching out to enwrap. Form already becoming absurd. Mouths exact their pride and the whole room is turned-onto flesh.
I feast at her chest and heighten from the cool taste calming the sour of my mouth's red arcways.
I position her and praise her flesh, landscape of endless habitations. And try to consider the act of each habitation.
I pray upon her flesh with my fingers, treating the scintillant, can feel climax far off and the relish of worship gaining its room of ordination.
I search my head between her hips, wanting to have her saddle it while I nurse of the water of her stone.
A suit of egg, jeweled cosmos of wicking sweat on carnal terrain, the top half of a red wheel revolving through her, she squeezes out a tangle of yellow roots atop me that seem wet with the same red and ink blue beading anointment as she. My eyes thicken beneath closed lids while corroded rivulets form at their sides, like the eyes of a wincing statue. Sopped cloth like something freshly skinned. Her bare breasts and the perfect center of her heart that pours out like a blood red street lamp. I could break the light like a jar, but I do not want to see the black accumulations of its insides in this ovenish intersection of parts. Silvers of spit are trembling connectors between mouths. A peeled face with a broken wing of musculature on its forehead is covered in an electric veil. Flesh spins away from itself in a kaleidoscopic turn. A perfect form in emblem of the separation appears between the juxed figures: a white eagle with its head turned left, in straight lines of kilowatt blue. And the sinews thin—shimmering in sway—thinning to nothing as departure grows, disconnecting from the memory.
A welting white cum extending its mouth for breath, its head heavy, traumaed with factory white, gray-blue cageworks in the longing jaws, eyes immured in heavy pulp and eyelash thin strains. The mind a burnt down candle in the throat of a wine bottle, visions in the drippings: black haired women furiously shaking their heads, stairways falling off from one another. The overcome's hair thickly jism seeped so as to be sunken into the fulsome fruit of the head. A word in the exertion of the splendorous nave of the mouth. Ribbed piping inside being rollicked in a closing-in berth, time-clocks spilling about as the supreme white makes a coldwalled hollow of what was once sacristies of densest red. The spook drenched in strengthening assortments of white, trying to flood the heart's supplicant mouth like overspilled sputum trying to gather back round the lips in a large bubble.
But she holds him in interstice of thought.
Nursing the fold of his mouth, breathing air through its membrane. She rides high, twisting over him, fastening him in the white falls of himself. Her eyes shuttered in ordering him this way. Her eyes seeming to rest on a resolution. Her lips partly turned from the mouth, to permit a word of reverence. And her body is full, a resilient instrument of flesh giving curvature against flexures of white. Calming not to rise, but to fall into her enfolding.
The creature swaddled deeply in nets of self-refuse, wants to be lain asleep, with a hand resting over the amber ornament of his eros heart.
And by this, bodies collapse. The window of her room turns from twelve o'clock to six o'clock. I slightly feel the capsule's spin but I am beside her in this turning over of the body.
She opens her eyes to find me; and her mouth becomes a grace of good morning. In moments the skin becomes full of its salt. Mouths spark off in red relief as bodies again begin twining freshly round. And the day dozes, oddly not running on as punctual flesh rests and engages, spurring itself to junction; she folds over me and we boil up in a stew of sheets.
Who sits at the window with this heat? A bird in its mouth a worm of sun.
Each finger's whorl tries to undue stitches of flesh—to pull it loose from the reluctance of the coffer. Weirdness beats upon the windows like a last day. An ill, timeless waking. I ask her if we are late and she knows we have nothing yet. And her resistance arcs atop me and I arc into her resistance. We crawl against each other like children, crawling spaces of pure light, making chase for streets to come as if we had the whole city to find each other out, to rapture the mouth loose from its root amid an intersection.
She thinks of the train in the moment I do—clouds of exhaustion in run-on tunnels. She lifts me like a trap door from the bed, as if she were coming out from beneath a fallout shelter. And I lift stiffly away from her as if to be boxed-up in the light of her window.
She puts me out into the street, my lips bitten fresh and sore.
Faces escape their hosts and the sun inters the streets, people shifting tensely in its beams. She put me out, refusing to let me wash with her. The sweat still upon me, grown clotted. My hair like a static refuse on my head, disarrayed crown for midnight heat, bodily force winging through tunnelesque time, chasing onto the point of light.
I end at the bank, speaking insatiable red at the confessional of the window. I was buying my ticket out of town. And that fulfilled, I took to turn the shoulders of everyone in the city, facing them all away from me that I might leave the gravity of their eyes. And I recalled her, the juxtaposition of bone filled with now.
I remember her falling over me; I remember my fingers secured in her hair.
I pull her toward me even now, dragging her nakedly on, as we recede from the jointed moment. The shafts of our mouth causing a common draw. It is not long til I can no longer feel her—to reinstate corpus given its shelter in the past, cannot congregate the thought and smell the sweat of her flesh again. And the night clamors, beating its sticks against the window; and I cannot close my eyes hard enough to bring a body forth.
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--with a textual rendering of A. Alzona's painting, “The Lovers”--
The mouth like a temptation. Her face a secret joy.
Lights flash out and limbs extend, reaching out to enwrap. Form already becoming absurd. Mouths exact their pride and the whole room is turned-onto flesh.
I feast at her chest and heighten from the cool taste calming the sour of my mouth's red arcways.
I position her and praise her flesh, landscape of endless habitations. And try to consider the act of each habitation.
I pray upon her flesh with my fingers, treating the scintillant, can feel climax far off and the relish of worship gaining its room of ordination.
I search my head between her hips, wanting to have her saddle it while I nurse of the water of her stone.
...
A suit of egg, jeweled cosmos of wicking sweat on carnal terrain, the top half of a red wheel revolving through her, she squeezes out a tangle of yellow roots atop me that seem wet with the same red and ink blue beading anointment as she. My eyes thicken beneath closed lids while corroded rivulets form at their sides, like the eyes of a wincing statue. Sopped cloth like something freshly skinned. Her bare breasts and the perfect center of her heart that pours out like a blood red street lamp. I could break the light like a jar, but I do not want to see the black accumulations of its insides in this ovenish intersection of parts. Silvers of spit are trembling connectors between mouths. A peeled face with a broken wing of musculature on its forehead is covered in an electric veil. Flesh spins away from itself in a kaleidoscopic turn. A perfect form in emblem of the separation appears between the juxed figures: a white eagle with its head turned left, in straight lines of kilowatt blue. And the sinews thin—shimmering in sway—thinning to nothing as departure grows, disconnecting from the memory.
A welting white cum extending its mouth for breath, its head heavy, traumaed with factory white, gray-blue cageworks in the longing jaws, eyes immured in heavy pulp and eyelash thin strains. The mind a burnt down candle in the throat of a wine bottle, visions in the drippings: black haired women furiously shaking their heads, stairways falling off from one another. The overcome's hair thickly jism seeped so as to be sunken into the fulsome fruit of the head. A word in the exertion of the splendorous nave of the mouth. Ribbed piping inside being rollicked in a closing-in berth, time-clocks spilling about as the supreme white makes a coldwalled hollow of what was once sacristies of densest red. The spook drenched in strengthening assortments of white, trying to flood the heart's supplicant mouth like overspilled sputum trying to gather back round the lips in a large bubble.
But she holds him in interstice of thought.
Nursing the fold of his mouth, breathing air through its membrane. She rides high, twisting over him, fastening him in the white falls of himself. Her eyes shuttered in ordering him this way. Her eyes seeming to rest on a resolution. Her lips partly turned from the mouth, to permit a word of reverence. And her body is full, a resilient instrument of flesh giving curvature against flexures of white. Calming not to rise, but to fall into her enfolding.
The creature swaddled deeply in nets of self-refuse, wants to be lain asleep, with a hand resting over the amber ornament of his eros heart.
...
And by this, bodies collapse. The window of her room turns from twelve o'clock to six o'clock. I slightly feel the capsule's spin but I am beside her in this turning over of the body.
She opens her eyes to find me; and her mouth becomes a grace of good morning. In moments the skin becomes full of its salt. Mouths spark off in red relief as bodies again begin twining freshly round. And the day dozes, oddly not running on as punctual flesh rests and engages, spurring itself to junction; she folds over me and we boil up in a stew of sheets.
Who sits at the window with this heat? A bird in its mouth a worm of sun.
Each finger's whorl tries to undue stitches of flesh—to pull it loose from the reluctance of the coffer. Weirdness beats upon the windows like a last day. An ill, timeless waking. I ask her if we are late and she knows we have nothing yet. And her resistance arcs atop me and I arc into her resistance. We crawl against each other like children, crawling spaces of pure light, making chase for streets to come as if we had the whole city to find each other out, to rapture the mouth loose from its root amid an intersection.
She thinks of the train in the moment I do—clouds of exhaustion in run-on tunnels. She lifts me like a trap door from the bed, as if she were coming out from beneath a fallout shelter. And I lift stiffly away from her as if to be boxed-up in the light of her window.
She puts me out into the street, my lips bitten fresh and sore.
Faces escape their hosts and the sun inters the streets, people shifting tensely in its beams. She put me out, refusing to let me wash with her. The sweat still upon me, grown clotted. My hair like a static refuse on my head, disarrayed crown for midnight heat, bodily force winging through tunnelesque time, chasing onto the point of light.
...
I end at the bank, speaking insatiable red at the confessional of the window. I was buying my ticket out of town. And that fulfilled, I took to turn the shoulders of everyone in the city, facing them all away from me that I might leave the gravity of their eyes. And I recalled her, the juxtaposition of bone filled with now.
I remember her falling over me; I remember my fingers secured in her hair.
I pull her toward me even now, dragging her nakedly on, as we recede from the jointed moment. The shafts of our mouth causing a common draw. It is not long til I can no longer feel her—to reinstate corpus given its shelter in the past, cannot congregate the thought and smell the sweat of her flesh again. And the night clamors, beating its sticks against the window; and I cannot close my eyes hard enough to bring a body forth.
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Author:
Kevin Maus
