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.
