It was pornographic science fiction inside you. You stretched yourself onto the bed
and I was casually stationed as a headless fog. You undressed in the afternoon—the
chimerical atmosphere where chatting women turn into chittering insects. I felt you
scrape your tongue against my chin, the moment of vanishing inside you where I
could leave the forms of your different faces and hear the conversation you really
wanted with me. Your tits sent out whips that lassoed me to the bed, and your
pussy adopted the same penetrating gaze, a cabalistic cipher where occult forces
dimly sounded. Our lips strayed towards edges, idols and fiction, experience and
fruition. The room was pinned with veils, resounding with lengthening shadows
sweating through each syllable, each bluish charge against the inner thigh and neck,
accepting that I was not the gentleman you wished me to be. In the centremost
labyrinth of your labia, I unintentionally scried your future and saw echoes of tall
trees in gentle winds, fingers turning pages of burning books with images of hungry
baby birds that would be unlikely figures of your liberation.

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