Windows

Chocolate shimmers on my tongue and spreads down my body. Forests of desire are being fertilised by molasses light slanting in through stained glass windows. The heat is making everything sensual, my blood is getting overexcited and spilling out of my nose. It will not be going anywhere though when this body ends, though it has travelled a long way.
    Which sex was it assigned to to carry blood from chapter one to the final chapter? And why is it that sex is the one to have been oppressed? Blood, weeping from pricked fingers, vaginas, bullet-wounds and noses must surely be sad at such a state? It is surprising the earth, avatar of life, inventor of blood, has not shut the book on us yet. Perhaps it has faith that masculinity will blossom one day from the mud of it's dishonourable past.   

Other colours like Neptune blue and Labrador gold are now streaming into the temple. The technicoloured stone floor is close to orgasm. The priest realises everything is alive and kneels before the altar that is melting in the light. Soon he knows the altar will be gone and he will be left dancing. And then he will turn the music he dances to into an altar and kneel once again. He doesn't feel comfortable standing on his own two feet.

Should masculinity be on it's knees? Or on it's own two feet? Should it be bent over and spanked? Could it learn the steps to a new dance where it can feel the movements of it's partner? One which doesn't involve trampling on her toes and spirit?

I am always looking to escape these questions through the fire that burns the definitions of both. Would an orgy of perpetually undefined experience be an improvement? 

There are other fires; the one that your eyes have ignited in my heart, the one in my head that says 'fuck off' to inanimate objects, the summer forest fires in Cyprus, the one that reddens and browns skin, the fire in our blood.

What are days for?

What are days for?
Days are where we live.

On this day a friendly black and white dog is quietly trotting by. I am sitting on a patch of grass by a beach villa as my brain continues struggling to let itself go.
    Other parts of my body are also struggling. For example, my hands are struggling to unite themselves with another body, my eyes are struggling to untie themselves from desire, my heart is struggling to comprehend itself, and my nose is struggling to become aware of the subtle scents that serenade it everyday. Currently I'm detecting coffee, grass, hints of the sea and notes of tea-tree from a recently acquired deodorant.
    I have heroes in my struggles: the dog's nose, the mountains's eyes, the night sky, whose infinite heart comprehends itself by making star systems and creating things like humans on them. Some of whom wake up and have their centre of gravity shifted by your beauty. I cannot help my orbiting, I hope that we will collide and explode.

Two days later and the washing machine is groaning with the salt and sweat from the weekend's beach getaway. The black and white dog has just sniffed my crotch, the air is still and hot. What are days for?
    Making love in? Alas, that isn't what I'm doing with them at the moment. Instead I'm writing about what it's like being in them in Cyprus while other people watch 'inside the world's toughest prisons' on a large LG TV. Actually, when I look up I notice no one is watching it because they're both on their laptops. How many humans are on their laptops, and how many are making love at this moment on earth? I would guess, sadly, that the laptop greatly outnumbers making love. Is this the future of humanity? No, it's the present.
    Days are where we live. Or is it the days that live in us?

Another one has come and woken me into it. The wind is flickering leaves on a house plant, and a flicker of sexual fantasy reappears in my mind as I eat egg fried rice.
    The wind of sexuality has been blowing a gale in my body recently. A line of metaphorical boats eager to start a race are lined up on the sea. There is plenty of wind, but the start has been delayed. It's high time the whistle was blown. The whistle blower is confused over things like gender power dynamics and the moral implications of making love versus fucking.

Days, what else? George Clooney would say if he were hired to advertise where we live and not Nespresso. However, days do not require advertising, because you cannot buy them, you can only live in them. 

Where can we live but days? In the mysterious world of sexual fantasy? A world fraught with struggle between wild desire and the confused sand castle of morality. Is it a castle built to ensnare untamed dragons or to direct society down a path of cordiality? 

Answering that question will bring the priest and the doctor, with their long coats on the floor, running naked over their bodies, escaping the world's toughest prison.

What are days for? Being in, what else?