Is It Anymore Sex?

Temples from village to pyramid
bind, square, contain and maintain.
The furrowed observers jot measures
following blood, flood, moon, star.
What is it inside the tide and wave
or outside that I can replicatably
preach as true?

The wily magician dares to go still
further than the elders and grandmothers
stuck in their structuralism of opposites –
gnostics using all means verbal and not
subject to verification to cannibalize
what opened the eyes last year and
month and minute.

The performer encases in gray glass
his head according to the mood
written within the change of seasons
on paper skin with vibrating pen
knowing that looking hard will shatter
the ordinary reality and propel us all
into ecstasy.

We structure now to break later
we make our lines to bend minds
this is transgression on every
possible statement of night, day
role, pole, rule and equator.
Behind every boss and murder
is slave and birth.

Simple sexual transgression, clean
as rational thought and overthrow
of habit. All conventional perception
in a black mass of parsed logic
against the gods of anarchy and waking.
Here, consume my sacrament dictates
the priest of consumption.

In the temple walls are walls
keeping in and out the spellings
that mix male and female sexual
elixirs in rites designed to foresee
and foretaste reabsorption finally
into clay of kiln into babylon’s
new jerusalem.

We are most intensely ourselves
when eros takes us back home
to visit grandfather seth’s threshold
our noses eclipsed, pointing fingers lost
in a kind of chaos which reminds us
of a joke about being nothing
without a place.

The place being a body among
bodies between winds of surety
liberated by water and entrails
separated and brought back together
by boundaries, by respect, by self
spoken of in big words and ‘petit mort’
of wiggling commandments.

My lover lies on a postmodern bed
observed and theorized by my gaze
in my generation as boy straight into
manhood and then limp pondering
what does she need? Passionate
respect or prudish taboo? And I throw
law out windows.

She has violated so many visceral
and moral and dilated sub-visions
that I had for her before I knew her
that I don’t really know what sex is
anymore. So I may break, I may not
care to control what goes on in
the sanctified room.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
This entry was posted in love, poem, poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s