Tuesday, June 18, 2019
"The more a man cultivates the arts the less he fornicates." ~ C. Baudelaire from Intimate Journals (trans. Christopher Isherwood)
How wonderful to say that I haven't written, because I am living too much. For so long I wrote and wrote, dove ever deeper down into the well, passing up electric life all around me.
[Soft glances, humming miles marked by hedgerow sunsets.
I know somewhere I missed a glowing kiss.]
And while I will never regret those sunken hours spelunking nook and sigh, I can say I am enjoying this outward turn, this middle age of middle age.
The cuckoo Glock of youth.
An inward curl. The knowledge of orgasm.
Now stretch again before all limbs recoil from the light
to become a seed, once more.
"Only the brute is really potent. Sexuality is the lyricism of the masses." ~ ibid