You dream
yourself
bound in meaty
ribbons of my
feminine vapours,
steaming in
the hothouse
of my cunt.
To keep me
in your
mind’s eye,
you fuck
the cold sea
between us.
It is only
the prospect
of your
inevitable
ejaculation
that keeps
you warm.
We will always
be separate.
You cannot curl
in upon yourself
anemone-like.
Where you spend,
I conserve
swallowing
the whole
hole of my
pleasure
enraptured
musculature of
my induction.
I do not spurt
or need to add
to the failed
posibilities.
Your desperate
attempts to
avoid death
in my womb
are futile.
Nothing grows here
but what I allow.
And I will nurture
no more versions
of you.
Exquisite…
thank you!
OUCH!!! The darkness I sometimes feel in your writing seems to be wrapped around my throat all of a sudden. My primal instinct is crushed.
Oh dear. It really wasn’t meant to wrap itself around your throat. Actually I was watching too many lectures on Luce Irigaray.
That then explains it. A philisophical quandry. Feminist or romantic? I then will take to the “Distant Shore”, profess my love, and continue my futile existance knowing that my kind will be no more.
It was really just a response to her insistence that women have no language of their own. I know the French are prone to hyperbole, but frankly, I think that’s crap.
Apologize not, it is just a concept I have never given myself to. I can not claim to know much of her writing because I am not a devotee of the work. Know this however, I know from what I have read that she could never be compared with you, as you believe in love.
You’re very kind. Apparently people who believe in love are, as a rule, intellectually inferior. *smirk*
I say – everyone has to have a hobby.
RG, I got lost in the vivid imagery – meaty ribbons, feminine vapours and the cold sea. Until the door was slammed shut in a feminine Shiva sort of way. Nicely done, Nan
Thank you. That’s really kind of what I was aiming for. I’ve been reading too much Irigaray
This is just breathtaking… wow…