Every night spent beating back entropy
Was a night we spent in glorious vain,
Conducting our bodies passionately,
Musica humanis, rhythm, refrain.
We movers got older, became less prime,
But the movements became more glorious,
Layered and nuanced, polished, refined with time
(We trained like artists, drilled like warriors)
(Film finds the best way to do a thing once;
Theater strives for perfection each night,
And so did we, animals on the hunt,
Tongues tasting the air, ready for a fight.
Night became day and time kept advancing
(The world was ending, but we were dancing)
Tag Archives: sex
Every night spent beating back entropy
No matter how long I stare at it, the ceiling doesn’t change. This must be what it’s like to be a corpse.
* * *
There are too many people in this apartment and no one knows anyone else, but that’s the way it goes when the club empties out and someone announces to no one in particular,
Hey, I’ve got synthemesc back at my place.
Not even sure whose place it is, if it’s anyone’s, if the proper tennant is out of town or asleep in another room or cut to pieces in a bag in the fridge. Probably not the fridge thing. That’s where they kept the wine, and you’ve seen the wine. You’ve seen the synthemesc too, but you opt for the wine because it’s one thing to be in a strange environment, surrounded by unknown quantities, intoxicated to the edge of reason, but if you popped the pills and your eyes rolled back and you started seeing funny little green ghouls, too? Well, shit, that’s just reckless.
And besides, that’s not why you came here anyway.
You came here because she came here. You came here because you’d been dancing together. One in the morning on a Tuesday night, not exactly a sensible hour to be out. Folks got work in the morning. Kids got school. People got girlfriends and boyfriends, husbands and wives they ought to get home to.
But not you. And not her.
She takes a pull of wine and stands up and announces she has to go to the bathroom. No one pays her any mind, occupied by other things or other realities, but you hear her and you watch her and she’s watching you. Her statement was both an admission and an invitation. She’s making eye contact when she turns. You give her a few minutes to take care of whatever she’s got to take care of, and then you go exploring. The bathroom door is unlocked. The bathroom door is ajar. The light is off.
She’s sitting on the counter, a cigarette in her hand, her eyes staring out the open window. Outside, the city murmurs, tossing and turning in its sleep. You close the distance, put your hand over hers, your fingers on the cigarette.
I’ve got more.
But I want this one.
The cigarette carries her lipstick with it. Iris. You can’t tell if you taste it or if you smell it, but it’s there. It’s her. She’s there. Ten minutes later, the bathroom door securely locked, her lipstick smeared, your hands on your belt, she tells you,
The words don’t even make sense to you. They don’t resolve into anything meaningful in your brain. She might as well have told you that purple is the cubic root of eleventy-spleen.
What to do with this information. How to process it. You have no answers. Your hands fall limp at your side, your belt still buckled. You have no answers, but you have questions.
Are you happy?
Yes. No. I don’t know.
Where is he? Or she? Or whatever?
He. Business trip. Out of the state.
What are you doing here?
I don’t know!
There are tears in her eyes. You’ve been in the bathroom far too long. Even if no one’s curious about where you went or suspicious about your absence, sooner or later, someone’s going to need to use the facilities. And if she starts moaning, if she starts sobbing, there’s going to be suspicion.
So what are you going to do?
I don’t know. What do you want to do?
It’s a Hell of a question, you think. But then, you know there’s a difference between desire and reality.
I don’t know either. How are you getting home?
I don’t know. I went to the Salarian with friends, but they went home. I could call a cab. Or call them.
Too far to walk?
I live in San Solano.
You laugh. Oh, yeah. Way too fucking far for her to walk.
Well. I’m going to leave.
Why? Why would I stay?
Seiren, the last thing of substance I said to you was “Hello”
It’s all been downhill ever since,
Every other word to escape my lips
A piece of fruit that has rotted on the vine
But was plucked and delivered anyway
Were I not dumb, I would sing to you
The notes conveying what my words cannot
(Your skin is pale and soft
I want to kiss it
I imagine you wet)
In the beginning, we knew each other whole.
That intimacy was the most natural state
Of being, but a flaw in the fabric of
Things pulled us apart, created that
First break, set us in motion.
But we are born to fight entropy. We are
Heavenly bodies finding each other in
The dark, acting on each other in
Ways we’ll never understand.
We can fix this. We can laugh in the
Face of decay. A strong force
Attracts us. Gravity will
Pull us back together.
You will see, I promise you. You
Will see that the very act of
Living is to be mending,
That it is in the nature of
Our bodies to come
What has been broken will
Be made whole, and that
My universe will never be empty so long as you are in it.
I want to inject you
Inhale your scent
Take you in through the skin
Drink you like milk and honey
Still and breathless
Desensitized to pleasure
Nothing to hide
You will not want me any other way
You’ll miss him
You’ll get used to pain
Fill the void
Who cares what’s behind?
Here I lay in love with your mystery
I can help you
This may hurt to feel these lips
Still I want more
I need more
I just need it
Who cares who sees anything?
Let the whole world look in
Lucky witnesses keep me on the edge
Just like always
We belong together for the last time
I won’t stop until you ask me
You’ll hate me all night long
Never looked so good
I love you in a way that isn’t love,
A scientist gazing at butterflies
And imagining the most beautiful
Impaled, penetrated, stuck on a pin.
I want you like a butcher wants meat: fresh,
Red, pink, wet, the choicest cuts spread out and
Awaiting the cleaver, waiting to be
Transformed into art by his bloody hand.
I see you like a conquistador sees
Virgin land: there for the taking, green fields,
blue waters, shining riches beneath a
Thin veneer begging to be torn away.
I love you like a writer: empty words
And idle ugly thoughts and nothing more.