PROSAICLY KNOTTY

the morning sun crept past the partially closed bedroom drapes and he reluctantly opens his eyes. the mist abating he drags out of bed plumping the duvet unto the cold oak floor. the chill from the floor enters the soles of his feet and rapidly climbs up to his loins – he needs to piss.

roll over… roll over ...

a movement on his bed he turns to regard a naked her on the part of the bed where he was not. her nipples firming by the unexpected cold air, arouses pulsing in his area that is calling for a porcelain release. his eyes a-sparkling, he mumbles along the line of – morning- night- wow -green tea- or joe. he puts on a stained bathrobe, and as he exits to go to the john says she is extraordinary.

it's raining. it's pouring - oh what a relief it is.

coffee now prepared he flops on to the living room couch - taps on the tube pushes buttons to the weather channel.

freezing she stretches towards the cold floor to retrieve the duvet, she re-covers her naked body while attempting to recall the state of the past station. last time on survival- flashbacks, click, clack, cold, lonely, acquaintance gas pump, empty, ruba-ruba-duba! Does he have a first name? joe? john? dick? does he have last name? click, clack, she recalls he said she is extraordinary or said the performance was extraordinary? or perhaps he said her body was extraordinary?

or gold or gold or gold somebody somewhere was told.

some did and do, found and find her and/or body extraordinary. and most of those whom she chose to imbibe with said hey yeah sure extraordinary- hoping for more. she herself
assesses her self/body as - come see, come sigh.

she on his bed, staring at his grey ceiling attempts to extrapolate the exit word
- extraordinary. her pillars parting, pulsing and warm moistness to receive,
does provide for a few eternal ah moments where all narratives are diminished.
where all narratives are dismissed. where all narratives are defied and the moment deified and those ruling loops become lax.
even i must reluctantly agree to that extraordinary.

where do sky dancers perch when they are spent?

she, too found insert his/her name here according to date, month, year - filled the funktion.

at her place where she stores her garments, knick- knacks and loneliness is a loaf of rye bread past it's due date. the rubbing now past she can not deny was yabba-dabba-doo. here yet no longer now - dry harsh ordinary time she falls into a deleterious state of i-am-here-wherever-that-may-be.

after the wow the woe.

scratch a match, a flame then no flame, hopefully no body got burnt.

she dresses her once extraordinary body and leaves room where the residual scents of their stress relief yoga remains . she pours coffee into a chipped mug in the kitchen, portages it into the living room and smashes her-self-body beside him on the dirty couch.

he looks at her boobs, she looks at the tube, while the couch cries - conch and cock, shampoo, shampoo, there is five dollar bill under the cushions
.
the weather woman provides the five day forecast - dry and cold. the information provides a pause in her mindscape, she drags some of the drip coffee that was lightened by curdled cream and spews the content on to the coffee table. the weather woman, wrong blouse, wrong blush, though it may be winter, she is a fall.

as she watches the talking she on the screen. he watches her lips, oblivious to her tightened jaw, gritting teeth and very remote eyes- thinks delicious. his eyes hungrily go down her form revelling in the parts that are buried by manufactured material. inspired part by memory, part by fantasy a rediscovery of Shangri-La - his still sticky member from last night's asana firms up.

surly unsure she speaks with some urgency, to him, the couch, the weather woman or
some other it is all so unclear? it kind of goes like this - him her micro, men women macro meta-narratives, desperate posturing under faux universals. she finds all this and that difficult to comprehend yet still she is compelled to play.

she speculates about his and her role in this masquerade? are we pawns of some biological conspiracy to keep us toxic apes fighting and fucking for a fauna reality show? is all this a hell domain, where multidimensional demons herd us to provide food and fuel from the secretions of our sufferings and ecstasies?

he hums, and silently measures her sanity and/or bitchiness, he regards her flushed face and her heaving breasts and has a continental shift in his mid region and decides it is deep. he cuts and paste choice words from her tirade and invokes pleasure fulfilment and self erasure and a holy sexy grail. not being tethered by the bulk of her words, he looks at her small feet tapping in tempo with the rant and sails in sweet seas.

he places his hand on her thigh and sighs.

she enters an aloneness, not the one defined by the absence of partner, kin or friend but that existential void. there - i is why, and why is what? she is calling for that thing that is not a thing. it seems all pervading yet irrationally appears unobtainable. she is scouring for non-space space, like those interludes before birth and death, or like the space when infants tilts their heads seeing something wondrous but never ever encountered before. like when you see some one so strange you can not even place them in any referential place, they are brand fucking new
she wants aloneness not alienated from you and i or any other i or it.

she ruminates out loud about one of those buddhist aloneness like ultimate nothingness, or that sufist rant love beyond love. beloved nothingness, the grand connection where all gesture are true, and when surrendering requires no quotations. where coming together is without the obsession of caulking those shattered parts of the soul, because we are already whole, or at least know we are broken.

she pauses and notices he is quite pleased, and definitely percolating, eyes wide open , lips loose, breezy breathing rhythmically, immersed in her body but not in the inquiry. launching from the couch, she quickly puts her winter clothes on, opening the street door shouts that she is alone here. the door is slammed and she slips - crunches away.

the door shouts - ouch!

the he whimpers a delayed - hey.

the couch growls -conch your angst sucks! shampoo cock shampoo.

and the very cold, lonely outdoor mat shivering whispers- come again,
pretty please!. pretty please! i am terribly cold.



"everything has a crack, that is how the light comes in.”
Leonard Cohen