Vagina by Kenn Clarke

For Helga

a thriller

Story

Illustration

Lennox Raphael

Kenn Clarke

climbed in & had the rose cover me with sheets of milk & honey. I was hopping off a train of thought.

The absence of taste is cause for panic. But not this time, not yet, not within these reflections, these walls, these voices rising from lips of a thous& petals, these winged samples moist as roasted ooohs & aaahs. Yes, roses are red & never why violets blue & honey too ; & so am I, nothing doing busy ; & lovely. Joy ; the passionate ate passion ; Joy ; &, now, I am all alone, all woman, only one left – or so I thought. Life has already had dinner. Of that, I am sure. »Destiny is a figure of speech« , & never out of reach. I make myself nervous. I am a distant dreamer ; & so are you. This is how I think, how I exist, or have ceased to be, & how time is a trap door hungry for desire. Step on my heel & see the future.

It is as though I am on a long trip to shadows of angels, only place left for w&ering souls in this magic balloon atop the tip of an arrow.

No wonder I wasn*t all there when some 95,000 sad carnivorous drum fish washed up along a stony 17-mile stretch of the Arkansas river ; when millions of curt red-winged blackbirds rained down on London one noon day ; several solemn zen hundred frozen great amber apes falling out of the sky over Manhattan ; in Thanet, Engl&, 40.000 devil gundy crabs dead along Kent coast ; warnings everywhere – parrots, macaws, talking dogs, jackdaws in Falköping, Sweden – tons of jelly fish washed ashore in Danmark ; 2 million more fish in Chesapeake Bay on America*s crispy East coast ; one hundred tons washed up in Parangua, Brazil ; & more & more birds from the clouds, forcing everyone to walk about with reinforced

steeltip umbrellas outside : hundreds of millions of sardines turned to ice in summer ; winged lions falling from above ; all air traffic grounded ; & so too belief, a wreck of the now ; early warnings ; a city of two million disappearing over a weekend ; & (then) a year of darkness, ants, light returning blue emptiness ; desire : aflame. ATTACK OF THE INVISIBLES ; kisses ; yes, raindrops, wanting less & having more : when the seas begun turning green. ! ! ! A*C*T*I*O*N ! ! ! »We have to get them before they get us !« Forgive me my… the solution was me. I am them. I am them inside of me. I feel a stirring of the pot. Them – me ! I am on the other side of time. I don*t underst& – but why should I ? Orders don*t speak back – & are not malleable, removing ecstasy from any

phenomenal turn against the tide, & turning again as tho warnings are elephant blessings. Your mother is my brother ; she keeps me shrapnel. She*s driving – still looking for sadness & example ; the intensity of (e)motion ; everlastingness – that which can be destroyed only by itself ; love, a far off place where hearts are placed in the wound & allowed to grow foolishly, questioning, ever been in love ? Or hate ?

Knew the feeling of love, fire, always death at the centre of its passion, dying echoes ? Footsteps of dreams. Everyone goes, everyone taking something to the cave. Everyone coming right from the cave. Everyone leaving something in the cave; the cave receivingiving. Even perception is shaken to the wind ; & the sun shines in parts hidden from imagination while sly bluebirds fly around its mouth & bats go everywhere.

I look again at the cave & the cave looks at me. I am weak enough to believe I was the first to see the cave was there before I came, & shall be, long after time is gone to its own dismay. We set out to discover the unknownâ&#x20AC;&#x160;; to be. Lips of anthurium lily tender as shy fern cover gorgeous entrails of times long past into futures peel destiny like oranges, the rind accurate as fate in the arms of imperfect devotion. What we did not expect was triumphal awe of natural, inner organic acupuncture, the set cure for desire, & knowing in every love there is something of new value. This love as a cure was separating us from memory & innocence: a quilt that freed us from blame & made regret an imperishable curiosity. Taste & touch are memories of invisibility. We were waking up to who we are, & mending a broken heart. I swallowed my tongue. Just in time.

Confessing my love would have been a mistake. Pure foliage. Recognizing such a mistake, however, opened me up to recklessness & desire. My head felt hot. I was emptying a jar of loneliness for the golden kiss. I was everywhere at the same timeâ&#x20AC;&#x160;; & glued to you. Fire had become water & water the fuel of passion. I couldn*t sit still. Time was neither here nor there. She came in then. Just thenâ&#x20AC;&#x160;; just like thatâ&#x20AC;&#x160;! She comes through the mist bearing gifts of Love. I am seeing myself like this for the first time. She is wearing a chain of red diamonds across her belly button. The Valley of Paradise is like no other. Rhythm starts to flower.

She falls over me, & we roll off the bed & onto the carpet & beneath the springs ; &, so, we make enchantment. For a moment there, time st&s ramrod to attention. I am thinking, I cannot find a way out of this forest. I cannot find what I*m looking for. Desire & loss are contradictory depths. Time gulps shadows. At first, I am fascinated by the changeling of beauty.

When I look into her eyes I see a universe of I don*t know how I don*t know how or what of the comings & goings as hesitation sucks me in ; & keeps me there. Vanity had not yet had the chance to play its h& of elephant teardrops. But that too would come. Those things always came. You can*t kill curiosity & innocence & expect milk & honey from destiny. I would have to get rid of sadness too ; & time, & being afraid of doing nothing.

Even more difficult. I am st&ing on my head & looking at the world. My eyes are wide open. I see time hiding in mirrors. I am seeing her for the first time. In image after image. I had long suspected memory could be trusted. No, no, there is another chance – always & forever. I stooped down on the grass edge of the road & polished my confidence. Dreams unpeeled my depths. We must underst& too the labyrinths of hearts in our heart of hearts, & how magic is the cure. When the life lines of my right h& begun itching, I knew it was time to do something. Time to see morality as a mirror of our doubts ; & expectations as buoys in need of girls. Time to wipe any smile from the face of despair. I start swimming out. Waves of paradise lap against my memories. This is the life : ! Holy, Water !

There is jelly fish everywhere, nurses of slimy, natural, organic acupuncture ; every touch free. I deep dive directly into one, the cave hiding everything, throwing up what everyone throws down ; another entering ; conquering pain ; being ; leaves of sun ; peaches too ; leaves of sun perched on the mound ; roses, roses, roses ; pink yellow blue green, white, a stone being rolled out, the cave responsible to the cave (& cave alone) ; wishes & silence becoming people of use to things. »We are not what we cannot escape«

I knew his every move. Thunder & lightning united. Desire is both journey & destination. I see pink stroked like fine horses. Eternity a shadow of itself. Time wishes to be a shell on the sea bed. The stake is rare. Taste is in, & so too distance & restraint. Flames of history consuming pity & apt regret ; &, then, always plus, a case of please not yet, accuse & refuse, & infuse stone

with blood & speech of flood waves as civilization pauses to save the last dance for history. Especially elf history of boredom, an excuse that would refuse to recuse itself from judgment & Paradise.

The lies we tell ourselves are so wonderful : even to the deaf : the blind would see in time : would have more incurable views of Paradise leaking clues to broken dreams ; &, yet, bored as the cave is, I wish it were a pearl outside markets of beauty & swollen smiles ; smiles sparkled by rivers & insufferable satisfaction guaranteed by guilt & remorse : a fashion that we are wealthier than the dead yet poorer than church mice on dry ice. Our appointed mistakes, & how we fool ourselves, we fool others too, & exchange longing for contamination ; & innocence, the vast present, time on its back, legs astray, formulated absences : flames of histories consuming pity & regret ; compassion styled as to sail into healing up & down my marrow as I exhale. The word dog bites me.

Should I be screaming ? No, that would be most impolite. I keep swimming & bobbing & weaving out of them & staying on the bright side of the water, so I could look as I swim, & look down, & under, as I dive & swim, dive & swim my whole life through to the end of the beginning of the cave staring me in the face. &, so, now, after having crossed the lakes & looked fate straight in the eyes, removing any cobweb of lies, I can touch ground, st& on soft s&, be, & look at angels flying to the end of touch & returning for more. How precious then the desire to be absent as choice ! How furious the incurious ! How furious : as feelings walk down mountainsides turning over trees & seizing the bright light of darkness ! & I can hear myself shouting (s)inside. »Won*t you come in ?« The word dog bites me still.

I had tried my best to be faithful to twists of innocenceâ&#x20AC;&#x160;! But how foolish being precious. One should have known better. I should have tiptoed through charred remains of regret. I should have stopped hiding behind love-emptiness. I was becoming the melody in the symphony of my life.

For quite some time, as a measurement of sorrow, I should*ve done nothing. But the gate was now wide open. Desire comes in threes. Time looks the other way. It was too late to count spilt milk. I was being drawn inexorably to the one cry I would not remember.

Scream innocence light ways of joy on a ride. I could sail out & beyond reach of touch. »There is someone at the door« she is whispering, »Come inside« she says, »& take off your socks. They are here to kill you !« I do nothing. All I can think of, I have been on the run for so long I am tired. I wish to give in to the weariness of the soul. At the beginning it was nice to be on the run from the truth of war & love on a lake of lotus kisses spilling over into destiny. Nice to be jumping over memories. Taking ants to bed, & rushing madly in & out of the cave. Nice to have my now time & being scattered over the earth & over dreams.

Nice to have the sky be purple blue fringed at the entrance to this golden cave of Love. »I don*t think you can do it« »Yes« she says – then the door comes down & I count 6 feet rushing in. »Hurry« she says »Hurry ! You must do as I say ! Here !« she says, & puts a finger into my mouth. »Suck in what*s under my nail. There is no deeper journey than into time« Sort of nibble, nibble, let*s not quibble.

You*re on the right track. There is no turning back. Am I dreaming ? Where am I if not somewhere ? Look, I had come to this. Who would have expected it of a harmless one ? But harm reigns supreme. Harmless merely means less harm. Like beingless, less being.

But filled still with wry emptiness & not knowing & being supremely alive to the nothingness of self : the knowing of the knowing & what it means to know less, & what one loses in knowing it would have been easier to know everything about night memories of dreams not happening to the many hims in me. Not sorrow, not dreams ; not fierce wind of moments gobbled up whole by anti-time dreaming in a fly box of memories left by the last kiss. He had not taken that plunge before, the entering into being, seeing fate as a new frontier, an elevated march to nothingness, love cured of cruelty, memories scattered over Earth & over dreams, the sky purple blue pinking yellow orange like breathing hard softly. »Not a sound« she whispers. I am in the water now. Joy is my toy. Underbrush from the pink seabed wrapped around my waist. I disappear into the vastness of taste.

Expectations keep my soul from falling into an even more exciting abyss. I needed answers. Who had sent them for me ; & why me ? What dream had been left undone to now make extreme violence a possibility of official remorse ? Allowing, no, having time be a collapsible reality deep inside the self I would have imagined, deep within the sadness & longing played out by choice & the refusal to acknowledge an adventure that would never be. While, off to the corner, the masked peacock & his magic w& giving time a headache & wishing I didn*t have to descend to the bottom of the pack in pursuit of jokers. »Stay right where you are« she says. I had no choice ; I was waist deep in the cave ; in; & would want to stay there until… well, in a nutshell, until there was no more hell, no more having to be on the run from meaning, whose invisibility is persistence, the carrying out

of an intention, pulling jokes apart, after having to invent one*s reality ! – nothing more difficult, more extrairony, more dubious, &, much like time, more filled with deceit & true love run stale & lifeless. Pink becoming the new red & turning blue.

Either by design or charm, an intoxicated invisibility – used as a human being, ambitious/monstrous, love within shadows of a redoubt ; scrupulous displays of cynicism – now, this is rose water of an ideal presence, the penitential evidence/ideal of a mask finding refuge in open spaces where masks melt like feelings & are sparing with what lies on their forced marches – & so, & so, & so on & so forth, he would be just what history ordered, & in even greater danger from himself. I know, yes, for the longest while, I carry deep within me a secret : that I have this thing inside of me. This then is what they want ; but even I don*t know what, how dreams use us. Time to strengthen uncertainties. How time plays dead to catch memories alive. I do not know ; I do not wish to know.

She is listening. »We must find him. We have no time to lose !« Ambiguities of time & deprivation are challenges. Mere testbite pinches of our weaknesses. Anything altruistic will be cornered scratching around in the dark & having the soul grind to a halt like petals in the sun. Language goes to my heart ; & stays there. Around pity there are no flags, only sly ointment, empty bodies, reality zest borne aloft on stretchers : they, they who ? – it does not really matter : the world as such is after itself ; we live in a free wound ; both time & elasticity given to absorption & surrender. I will take this mask & eat to practical limits. Dissolutely. Every issue of that story being memory against itself, against any retreat from not thinking.

I know. I know. No one is greater than time ; but who would ever wish to be what time is not ! ? Dark innocence perhaps, but under suspicion. Who would be Almighty then ? Who would judge mercy ? What do they seek ? What is it inside of me they want ? I am innocent, but, then, yes, there is no longer any age of innocence. Or ripe age of dreams. No possibility of impossibilities. No dreams left alone to dry themselves in teardrops.

No escape. Nothing ! But, then, could they be mistaken – or the mistake me ? Or has innocence, what little surface cure we know of it, all these times, maybe lost innocence had been simply a challenge of vanity & bitch suspicion interwoven with temptation & remorse ?

Maybe life, after all, was a cocoa basket of sorrow & rented astonishment of the few reliable surprises left. Things that had never happened to me before were now happening all the time. I was reeling from the future. They would want to kill it & have reality be replaced by an uncomplicated time. Where shadows would walk, love crawls to another beginning, & to another time. Reallyâ&#x20AC;&#x160;?

God alone knows time is neither past nor present. I am all alone, all woman, only one leftâ&#x20AC;&#x160;: or so I thought. Life has already had seconds. Of that, I am sure. Passion was becoming a form of worship. I would have to cut my teeth on friendship bones & hope for the best. I make myself nervous. I am a dream. A distant dreamer. This is how I think. How I exist. Or have ceased to.

It is as though I am on a long trip to the shadow of angels, the only place left for w&ering souls wishing to escape the imaginary. This is why I am here now. I walk from room to room of this house. I am thinking of how not to think. I open the windows. The air is spotless, & quiet. I cannot see forever, but, beyond the hills, clouds dancing in white feathers tickle themselves to holy frenzy. {What language is thatâ&#x20AC;&#x160;? What are they sayingâ&#x20AC;&#x160;? All I know is, every time I closed my eyes there would be, there was, a new beginning, seeing difference between time & being as indifference} I close the window. I am neither body nor mind. Time is invertebrate. I am alone, but not lonely. There are dreams, & I am verily all of them.

I have ceased to belong, & ceased to care. Being woman is to have one*s own flying carpet. I am taking myself back from me. I walk thru baked smoke to you. From ugliness to indifference was quite a short journey. I have stretched out my loss of memory to touch the sky. Look, she says, moments before he enters the cave, I can leave, but where would I go, where would I wish to me ? Yes. Where would you be ? »In the end, it does not matter« Innocence & reason have given way to the possible. To this world in me ; & I do wonder whether time had been reduced to air & pumped into me ; as a tyre. I feel like romantic dynamite in spittle. Chance does have outrageous twists turning against the self becoming. But what am I talking about ? Once upon a time no longer exists as a twist of fate.

I know everything about nothing, its make, the skeleton that was once silence. Something tells me I am in search of my destiny. I know such a thing does still exist, does have a pattern I must either follow or make my own way in the whirl. Aloneness is not an easy thing. For better or worse is often a curse. Time after time I had been timeâ&#x20AC;&#x160;; but never enough to satisfy the whims of history.

I am now me. I open & close my windows. The air is quiet & blue & there are stars resting on the hilltop. They listen to my heart beat. It is the only sound in this house. I open the windows again. I look out. There isn*t much more to be said about war, or a bottle of dreams. I feel I am about to rendezvous with myself. To discover this world. Hear the chaos silence of doubt, & be again (somehow) hungry for me.

All I have to my name is a red car out on the front lawn. I open the front door & walk down the blue carpet to the convertible. I touch it. I tingle. I am ready for forgiveness. I kiss it. I kiss the steering wheel. What am I doing ? Where am I going ? Who will drink my teardrops ? I have only to go forward. I have to use what I do not know. I brush against the car & walk to the hilltop. I look down at the house, & into every room. I take stock of my surroundings. I touch the merch&ise. I kiss time goodbye. I keep my fingers X. I do this all the time ; but nothing is clear. I see for millions of miles. There is nothing. The air is empty. I am looking inside myself. What*s out there ?

I look again. Better red than left unsaid. The mountains are white chalk knishes. There are rooms in every room packed only with dreams & memories of conquest. Leaves of time go by. I see them, – but to whom do they belong ? Who could so instigate sadness & piety ; &, beyond chalk, empty house, empty farml&s, sad, empty villages, empty cities, tall buildings in a museum without visitors – art of disappearances, of aspiration, dreams, of imagination stripped of logic & charm ; pools of deceit ; & love ?

Who reduced us ? Who tickled the tickler ? I go through room & room again until I am dizzy from room to room & there is no place left for me. I am jammed into a corner of the infinite. The wall closes in. I do wish to scream, but wishes do not work for free; & no wish is made to scream.

I am flattened out. Rose red blue green yellow flat pancake swizzle. I ease out. Everything is now sideways. The go traffic is too heavy for words. I apologise only to my innocence. I sidle into myself. I go out. I walk down the same blue carpet to the ride. Everything is red from the sun going down on itself. Instead of romance opening the door, I climbed the hill again, & took another look at the book of life.

From crisp dizzying heights of closeness, her eyes w&er from room to anxious room & under carpets. Everywhere tells a different story of desire. Those eyes were mine roaming white inside & I had merely dropped asleep on words pure as washed out dust but not meant for travel in the melting sun of hearts & shadows coming around the corner.

I was looking at a mirror which was merely correcting whatever I saw. I see bits of mystery under the bed, orb madonnas of brightly colored pins, beauties wrapped in egg shells, strange markings, trick velvet blue alligator dolls, space babies. Talking skys. Enough. I can no longer afford to make up my mind. Seated behind this wheel, I too would have really wanted to fly, but my wings were inside & the boulevard was wide, as I near knocked myself out remembering. I have only wheels for breath. As though mimic(k)ing this feeling, I drive greedy at breathless speed through nowhere. Everything & its blue nothingness are passages of time. Asphalt in need of love. Of caress. Of anything lending

excitement to nothingness at fractions of the cost of love ; any thing of now from then. Behind two shadows of a doubt was truth stark naked to entrap the sun. We rehearse our dreams for loss of memory. A world opens up & closes its eyes. All I know is I am driving this car. I don*t know how I got it. Does it matter ? Someone left it behind. I am alarmed by the silence of avoirdupois, petit pois, autre fois, a deserted heart. I open my mouth for grapes & take the rushing air. Time slit hovers over this moment of dark innocence. I swallow iridescent blooms. I swallow yummy memories ; & chuckle as I do. Now for now undermines anyhow. I watch time, worn & squalid at the elbows, &, like loneliness, companionless, sink beneath pain into absolute desire which, like power, is an excuse for wanting more while offering less.

I really do not know what sale day of the week it is. Ages ahoy since I heard a voice. The phone is silent. Emptiness. No one to call. No one calling. No electricity. No sexy moonlight. Only days leaking fears of something more forbidding than silence. Asphalt green moonlight blue iridescence. Pure love of nothing : form seeking dark innocence, lurching, now, careening, reckless, lonely, assured ; adrift. Ruby lips alright. The taste of – Onions. I began thinking of death, & how Time kills it is.

I gave up the corpse I had been carrying this long in the child within the cave. I was no longer afraid of being afraid. I had been thinking too much. Too lost in the cave. Without having once been there. {Touch me, we underst&. Touch me with your magic w&. Ride your cow & stroke my brow} I was beginning to relish sorceries of emptiness.

I was becoming in turn a kind of granulated syrup between two walls dripping with tears so crystal blue I was learning again to fall in love with curiosity & indifference. Haste was being drained from taste. Denial could only be emptied into sadness & despair. But there was none of that this time. I would not have to hurry into an arcade of bellows. Everything is invisible to feelings clothed in lace & marinated in oil of frangipani memories. So I am in a timelessness of cruelty of pleasure. Nothing from Nothing leaves Everything. is for Victory. ÂťDeath alone applauds its remorseÂŤ I would so dearly have loved myself to be what I would hope never to forget. Returning to happiness then, I am being forced to choose loosely between winning & how to loseâ&#x20AC;Ś even as the udumbara opens its eyes.

I am still driving. Driving quite fast. Driving myself awry sane into a prison beyond expectations. Driving between two suns ; a bright new world of innocence throwing off its mask & another emptying fury into guilt. Had I known God about death, I would have, yes, sought silence. I just, yes, didn*t know how to seek protection from time. Suddenly guilt (alone) could tame the wind & lift its fingers from my eyes. As desire comes too in six trysts of innocence. I could not remember rushing voices of egg memories. Jumping kisses leap over embraces.

Anxiety is detached from the memory of flat wide lost lonely feelings uninhibited by instinct. I am running out of teardrops. Absence/presence, inward/outward, hunger & desire have fate on their side but would rather hide from pleasure. I must turn around. »I am a Pleasurist«

I must go back. I must return to the house. I would have to cry again & have memories refill the tank. In the meantime, back to the house. I can see thru the blindness of pain. I cannot hide in wounded pride. Drawn to arousal, she is back on the same safe road to nowhere. The impulse to be is touchy. Any evidence against itself would be an outrageous destiny of red sun white moon lips biting soft parts of the imagination.

I realized then I had passed him once again. No one is supposed to have the same dream night after night after night. I stop & put the car into reverse. My heart is beating like a woodpecker. Do I dare to still have oneâ&#x20AC;&#x160;?

Yes, I am surprised. So surprised. So, so very surprised. Surprisingly so, surprises go. »Want a lift ?« I say »Going my way ?« Not a word. He keeps walking. I keep talking. »What are you doing out here all alone on this desert road ?… all so smartly tuxed up ? Care for a lift ?« He stops. »Get in« Not a move. I pour over & open the door. »Come in. I won*t bite you« He gets in. No shoes ! Silence. Silence like the secret dirt of Love.

He is looking straight ahead. As though I am not even there. As tho time enough speaks silence ; & silently. I don*t know what to make of it. »Thanks« he says. It speaks. I smile. As woman, I know the impossible is still possible ; I think. A cup of tears for broken hearts. »You*re welcome« I say. No answer. Well, welcome isn*t really a question. »Now there are two of us« I say. »I wonder what*s become of the rest of the world !« Silence. »I wonder too how far you*re going !« Silence. »I can see you are the strong, silent type«

Pause. »Where are you from then ?« »I don*t know« he says. »I am here. This is all I know. Maybe you can tell me the rest. I am hungry« I had bumped my head against a tree of memory. Time treated him as a mask & he was becoming one.

She let him believe his lies. She let him believe everything. Belief is no longer a reliable measuring rod of intimacy. Let him tango his own mango. She would let him go on & on in silence & stammering. She would let him stammer through the blue l&scape. She would let him throw himself into the moon. She would let him blast off into nothingness. She could do this. She could turn irritation into charity ; into relief. She let him scream joy. Because she could see right through him to way back when tomorrow.

She could see & see & see his history of distant dreams & not believe in the timelessness of space babies. But it was her turn too to not believe in the art of death & a time when, spared of memory & spirit desolation, she would realize she could not be afraid of opening the cave to surprises. »Death is satisfaction*s mirror« Without wishing to die, she would have to long for the peace of flowers. For the thrust of trust. I cannot access beyond the imaginary if I am afraid of the journey. Satisfaction is destination ; &, beyond, a big world inside of me, gardens of secrets, nowl&s of love & aversion as curiosity, despair ; vanity, the overpowering sensation of absence. Of this war disguised as pleasure & relief. »All I remember« he says »is getting out of an egg & walking slowly towards a hole opening up in the sky«

How strange thenâ&#x20AC;&#x160;; how strange she*d be listening to this, to himâ&#x20AC;&#x160;; listening with ab&oned relief. How so strange looking way beyond the truth & deceit of language when what we forget is what we remember. How strange too looking beyond truth to the deceit of language as an aphrodisiac rising. They were the very best of friends & would be found always walking in open fields.

They were still without clothes. Paradise was far behind. She would have her h& between his legs. She would be holding on. She would be guiding him through the underbrush to a l& of absolute nothingness of memory leaving bruises & scars as flags of desire on time as a mask hiding from itself. She would be laughing as she opened the door. Night would turn to day & back to original sin.

Holy water would hold back a swamp of feelings. The lack of nothing is the lack of everything, he kept saying, over & over. As though she wasn*t listening. As though no one would ever be lost in the memory forest of time. As though there would be no hallelujah cave come describing time as built-in shadows propped up in bed : Lord, Lord, Lord she thought, who is so bold as to be God ?

They. Their eyes are white as the membrane of an egg. This is not breakfast & satin. She was not taking yes for a question. They pull her out from under the bed. »She seems to be in a coma !« »I don*t care what she*s in, wake her up !«

»We*ve been told to look for the last woman on Earth !« »! ! ! ! ! ! ! Well, here she is ! ! ! ! !« »I don*t care what she is, let*s get moving ! ! « »We haven*t the whole moment« »Time is not perfect« »The world may not be watching, but the universe is waiting« »Perfection is innocence« Time is an army of memories refusing to die. They are looking for him. He is already inside. The comfort is alarming. She feels him moving around cautiously.

She would have loved to burst out laughing because of the dazzling peacock feather against her nose. But she dare not look back while being empty on full speed. She dared not stir. She tried to think of herself as someone special who would learn from life. I am feeling she is saying to herself I am feeling she is saying tickle, tickle. No, noâ&#x20AC;&#x160;; not that easily a matter of milk & fantasy drained from reality everywhere he looked. All he had really left was a kind of vanity perforated like stamps licking their lips. She could have salted her tongue with ashes. He was mailing the soul, but still moving nowhere. Merely enjoying the taste of bitter honey & seeing to ruins of intentions st&ing in the way of meaning.

He felt, the little feeling left, as though lost in a swampy desert ; as though time, oiled & measured by indifference, had been caught squinting in the glare of memory. As though too the very indifference was reminding him of the plurality & chaos of his own private myth of being ½ a ghost & everyone else. As though he had become a reverse frame split between petulance & being. »Stay right there« he heard her say »you*re safe« !

Unexpected intentions are the only vows of belief. To do is to be, – but what was he getting himself into ? Would that he could connect to the incomprehensible allure of what he would think even while trying not to uncover the other truth by thinking. Which is death riding the wind on a lake of orchids & blowing hot air kisses into rubble of a nomadic exclusivity where the cave is an impossibility only to be realized/terminated by the

flight & indifference of an obsession whose hiding place is in taste buds. Time & tongue are never ever wrong. He could not see. He could taste, & be guided by desire. He could open her as one would champagne in a confession box. »That*s right« she said. I am listening. Stay right where you are. Think comfort. Think pink. They are perplexed. They know you are here. They st& around me talking. They know I am in a coma. What they do not know is why. Their technology is a joke. They are wrapping rubberb&s around my nipples. They expect this to activate a gspot-charge ; &, out of this explosion a truth they can believe in ; one that would lead

them to a common renunciation, & to a religion of space & time as weapons of The Quest. They have blindfolded my soul. What they do not realize is I can see better now. Watch your steps ! The distance from lover to monster in the quest to rectify infinity is not the same as from Man to God. »Yes, stay right where you are !«

You are not to respond to the dem&s of desire. Time ties you to the dignity of loss. Ants in my pants would forever dance. Somewhere beyond expectations I would have to close my eyes & drink the wind. They know the future within is secure. They have only now discovered this truth, this redistortion of continuous kindness beyond the call of desire. Ecstasy is the infinite wisdom of despair.

They are waiting on their elite search team. Reductive inhibition would champion the cause of ignorance. I ignore, I am. What*s done is done. My dear friend, you would wish you had never walked down this road. You are discovering yourself in a secret place from which ushers life & desire. Which is life desiring more life & hiding behind God*s back. Well, try not to laugh.

You, my dear unknown friend, are locked in the appetite of being. Consider thus yourself dead once more. Escape ambiguities of chance (& choice) as mist arising from dead words carrying ruins of logic to someone whose private bares the mysteries of truth ; after being lied to & contaminated by meaning. »Stop worrying, this is where God wants you to be. The secret is, – hide, hide, they*re coming ! !«

I am reading your mind. »Desire is the trap we have set for them« I*m listening ! »Quiet, quiet ! ! ! ! Don*t even whisper ! Here they come ! ! ! I*ve been listening to them. Overhearing their war plans. My coma puzzles them. They are after you. I don*t know who they are or who sent them. Two of them are being reduced into a thimble. Enough is more than enough. They are wearing dwarf toothpick condoms dinghies. I think they are up to no good.

»Stay where you are. Hold still« ! »Find him !« »Bring him out in one piece ! ; &, if you can*t bring him out alive, well, you know what to do !« »We are taking no chances«

»Anyhow, forget taste, you have your orders. We cannot afford to have him disappear on us again« »Enough is enough« More than enough ! ! There is no higher penalty than pleasure. »Our future depends on the successful completion of this mission«

»Who*s to be the first to volunteer« ? Again, & let me. I am trying to make out the one who*s talking. I am blindfolded. I see him very clearly now. He has a snake*s head. He looks like a parrot. I see through that too. What is the meaning of all of this ? You don*t have to ask, the cave is a mask wearing itself on the inside of its outsiderness ; & asking answers would only help to make you a prisoner of love. No, no, I don*t want you to worry. Believe me, no harm will come your way. I have been waiting for just this opportunity.

Satisfaction is refusal of consciousness in the honey abyss become homeâ&#x20AC;&#x160;; solitude so ennobling it justifies the purification of absence & resists being contaminated by logic & resistance. They are looking for someone. Their eyes are white as the membrane of an egg. They are looking for you. They don*t know for sure who you are. They have never seen you.

The scent of the abyss in the fallen star leads them to hiding places inside your fears. As certain as they are, no one is sure. They must find you, dissect you, pulverize you, & find some reason to wrap you in meaning & animation within structures of secrets so well hid they can no longer be used as measurements of time & obstinacy & are threats to pleasures we disrobe as ideas. I know the mantra of your survival is give me, take me, I want you, you can have me.

» ! ! I don*t care !, desire is fear ! ! « To make room for holiness & self anew, life is poured into the soul of the cave & into the eye & dhow of a fisherman Buber who*s the boatman taking us across an idea to feelings which leave time wide open as an instrument of the divine. Pilotless orbiting speaks & plots its own discourse of pleasure as contradictory impulses experiencing fruit of passion in a limitless universe whose responses have been cleansed of any wavering purity. Just as sex is the revenge of the lonely, so too the pain of satisfaction & recall are seeds of a prosthetic immortality & gateway to soblivion. Be careful now ! In a sacristy lit by mauve c&les. they are chanting, »Her body is ours, our belongingness an absolute contempt for all who will fiddle needlessly with the pubic order of a silence wearing masks of truth as G*strings«

Time, as usual, questions answers. Would it ever happen again ? those rough kisses scouring Paradise ? touches ? grapes of love ? kissing deep inside flesh ? amazeballs evaporated happiness ? torment & reason ? smelling to be free ? suck free galaxy doom ? breath of life ? side by side questioning answers ? »Come, Papi ! ? ! !« Would it ever be the same sweet shame ? a sweetness without name ? Would the h& of God be the only one dealt from under the table ? four legs on which to st& up for principles ? touches ? talcum ? stick ? taking it out ? holding it ? looking at it ?, the softness, heavenly soft, saying this is mine, no one else can do it the way I do. Paradise, infinite & inscrutable, is not its description. » ! ! Yes, plug into pleasure, plug into Paradise ! !« »I*m ho-ome« !

Love like this can only be one side of the coin, a side of the coin & ½ a loin. But would it ever happen again, those kisses, scouring Paradise, touches, grapes of love, kissing deep inside flesh, nibbling, quibbling coming screaming, loving it, falling off the edges into opacity ? Would ecstasy alone be what one would now expect from destiny ? Or have you been, all this sweet forever time, climbing the wrong trees ?

We go to the depth of hidden canopies & seek out enemies of the realm whose justice goes beyond poultices of the sacred to God knows what. Even in chance observations of laws of pleasure we are the bodies we enter. Innocence is the fence around true lies. Whatever as whatever. We enter we are We.

Our bodies leave autumn to its wintry bosom. We forget too to remember losses of memory. I am you. A lion roars inside the moon. I recognize the cries of an immeasurable sadness. The balloon shakes & so too my lips. In my coma I am made desolate by chants of discovery, the wanting of nothing, of knowing everything, being stripped of virtue & evil, homeless, torn, dispossessed, made to endure Paradise even against one*s best lack of judgment & restoration of innocence. To have placed oneself beyond the crime of revealing secrets that would deprive mankind of the evolution of shadowsâ&#x20AC;&#x160;! To be here just now. Yes, those watery kisses crown insolence.

Quiet !. quiet ! – they are being poured into me now – they stumble & fall – they slip – they are ill-at-ease in their condom dirigibles – these dwarf toothpicks – there is no ecstasy, only the pain of such nothingness, this irritating tickle tickle from their headlamps. I can tell a thous& stories. They do not underst& the meaning of the noise of light. Their hot breath exposes them to the consciousness of chance. Danger sways reason.

»Stick out your foot ! This is no time to be a peacock. One is coming towards you now, &, when he falls, grab his dirigible, & run ! !« The stranger who had come in from nowhere only to be released into nothing, let him be. »Remember the good old art of forgetfulness« »I know, I know, you feel as though you are st&ing on the tip of your nose«

»Good ! Keep your balance. Follow my instructions closely« There was time alone to lose. &, torn since between two loves, loneliness & blame, who but God would I fear but not a sign of the chimes ? Love, no love, but loving ? Pure light. You would remember him then. I would ; & memories would remember themselves as the first lesson of forgetfulness.

I know, I know, – hold on ! Discrepencies of trust insist we must continue to continue. Well, he was, – holding on for dear life – & not just holding on… he stepped out of the shadows & delivered a shadow*s chop to the neck just as his assailant sought to tiptoe past an architectural fold whose moist confeiture was not enough to cushion his fall bleached white as snow the ever glowing missionary spirit screaming pleasure silently skillfully adjusted as though pity & venom are the sole agents of poisoned ecstasy.

»Well done, well done – now hide ! Here comes the other – go to him. Dream him with c&or – then strike ! But, before so doing, empty the self. I can tell there are other things on your mind« – just that I cannot – I cannot pierce the shield around certain memories, that part of everyone that is no one, does seldom frieze for laughter of rainbows, fluent, uninterrupted by silence. » ! ! Look out ! !, look out ! !« Love is more than overdue. C&or & respect are all you will ever get. Troubles are never – never over – now – speak to him – here*s your chance – he cannot see you, but will certainly hear loudly the exact moist of plus. » You, you there ! …Why are you following me. Why do you want to kill me ?« »I don*t know you ?«

»What have I done ?« »What are you doing ?« »Why am I here ?« I suffocate in darkness, the thing inside – what have I done to you ? – I don*t recommend destiny – merely now an excuse for window shopping sprees, an eternal what, I wish to tell you I knew the route stars take when they pitch headlong into divinity – into fresh sun silence flesh obtained to sounds of merriment – one reaches whispers of embraces. »I am not the truth you seek« he says, »Everything is br& now.« I can hear him speaking. I hear voices. There are two of them. They are against him. They want something from him. They don*t know what. They really don*t care what. They don*t care if divinity be the epicenter of curiosity. Or if push, having come to shove, is the crucible turning on itself or becoming rivers returning to their source.

Only time never ever tells who is not & who*s being knot being not to be. They hold him by the neck, they say what the heck ! & begin to wring all life from his dreams ; & the future, abrupt, sallow, sad & joyful, flows out to the mouth, opening, an orchid, the truth of what happens when the goal is nothing, & (suddenly, achievable). They drag kiss him through syrup, yes, they say, we will know how things are when they are not while hibiscus opens to sunripened feelings.

»We have him – we have him ! ! « But I could not leave them to knead time into a loaf of dread. I could not leave alone holes in the moon. When ur feeling good, think of the future. You think of a place you*ve never been, how a moment can not be measured by expectations, & time keeps an

inventory of shadows & is the first to admit we haven*t a clue as to where hell ends & heaven begins, how boundaries, like fences, contain themselves, & remain empty ; & empty their meanings into the rivers of time; & we get there when the only message is out of breath & time falls on its sword. »Leave him be, leave him be !« she was thinking. »Let him be ! – ! ! & his dreams too ! !« But she wasn*t sending any message… only dodging signs & picking up his thoughts. I am all alone. I am alone… all alone… thinking, not thinking… But what is thought ? – & who – where am I what ?… & will I ever be the same again ! ? He melted out of their grip, & into hungry lies. He wasn*t ready for forgiveness.

They are looking everywhere, but he was in their look, & hiding without even bothering to hide : they are looking & looking, but not inside themselves. Only for signs that are warnings rather than answers. Up above, the language, rain, simple & bitter – »They*ve lost him ! !… they*ve lost him ! !« They were screaming. Jumping. They were loud jumping so high, their heads would touch the ceiling.

»Hurry up, hurry up» ! they were saying« We have to find him before he hides in a sperm & disappears into a million chances« They removed her blindfold. Milk of human kindness. »She*s useless« they said. I can*t…

»Well, I never thought he had the power to dissolve himself« – »It could not have been generated from within« – »Obviously, he*s receiving some assistance, but, from whom« ? – & we do not know. On the other h&, is what we are seeing seen from within & framed by absence ? Sorrow & mercy are lost horizons waking up. He gently unties the blindfold, & smacks my face with it. I cannot see ; I cannot feel.

I can*t, I don*t ; I see the one who*s been doing all the talking. His sound speaks shadows. He looks like a bus st&ing on its hind legs. His arms are orange & his eyes yellow blue & face porcelain white. He is rooted to the spot : ice on scattered morning :

I tell myself we are seeing things. I see him clearly now. They come out of his mouth, smile, look around, st& on his tongue & look around : no wonder I wonder why they are not carrying weapons… They walk out, st& on his tongue, look around, turn, look at the mountain I am, ride bareback down the sides of the large one, dismount, & climb ladders to me. I feel them making the last push. There is urgency to their intervention. They think ; they dream ; all is nice – especially whatever happens twice. He slaps me across the face with the blindfold & says. »Waste of time ! ! ! ! ! ! – !Waste-ah-thyme !« I am burnt into myself. The echo of a once-beloved soul is pure anguish.

There are times everywhere. There are five of them inside me. I am dazed by the impoliteness of innocence. He slaps me across the face. I look at the blindfold & realize two of them would be on horseback. Desire reining in innocence. How strange the fruit of chance. Well, they wage happiness-happiness in a new-on-new brute weakness reduced to its knees at the door to the cave of dreams. I see on the h&kerchief the ultra bitterness of desire & cryptuous growth believing the impossible is always possible, & time, even when stripped of its innocence, isâ&#x20AC;&#x160;; & does have a purpose. ÂťThe job at h& is to forget what we underst&ÂŤ

Doing is discovering a new world. The slap stings memory. I can read the busman*s thoughts. I know now there*s evil magic in his stomach. Everyone is roaring to go. They*ve heard so much about mermaids & trolls.

They think life is so ok simple & war can be waged at the drop of a hat ; I say no more ! ; but, then, maybe they are right ; & so too you. Maybe everyone is right & no one is wrong, & time is a snowflake ; & equality the price of innocence. Maybe the differences between normal & quite normal are similarities between normal & unreachable. Anxiety is merely a promise.

»Hold him there« Perhaps the difference between hole & foal are minimal, & I was having a valhalla moment. I… I can see clearly now. I can be formed backward beyond time described as a river flowing into itself. Stay well within the sanctity of reproof. Deliverance is nigh. Memories walk on butter tiles. Time had been other people*s time, but was also his time now, & he could do as he pleased. He had been listening. He was hearing everything. Being & remorse were no longer enough. He would forever be finding himself. Time & disturbance will do, will forever illusory be. Being & remorse were not enough ; & enough was neither remorse nor being.

Behind each shadow, another. I remember a little of what did not happen. She was listening to me as much as I was listening to her. To act, the very pact ; breathlight shines. Hide well in him, she says – here comes… I held on for dear life as the cruel hot flood came & washed us ashore tumbling into crystals. O, gush, what a rush thru the forest of golden mist !

I stood on his tongue & watched her. The blindfold is off. Kisses do have wings. She has managed to confuse them. Imagine, I am on the way down to the secret base in his stomach, & they believe it is a waste of time to deny her the right to see : &, beyond too ; even shadows.

Desire is the history of yes, & being, a sort of no questions asked eros of dreams where vanity hugs kisses & gives sheer pleasure to the cliff ; & to agony too, of torment as satisfaction : miscarriage of injustice. This ride is like no other. Desire is born out of twilit scorn. I ski down a throat smooth as a baby*s tush, then plummet to l&ing space & is blown into the holding bay & into the base. Your mission ? I am listening.

…. is to destroy this base & its occupants ! I look round : dozens of warriors on the way out. I am listening. I blow thought gas. They fall like bowling pins.

Poking them with a lethal finger, I walk through the gas – until there*s one left & I say to him HURRY, HURRY – let*s get out ! ! …. & we do ! We stood on the tongue of the human bus & looked at Paradise. Beyond time, what next, &, after that, what to expect ? We climbed down & entered. We did, two of us, muscling our way into a dream. I am listening. I am now looking for myself. Get rid of him at the first opportunity, she says. I am beginning to think. I am listening.

I am free because I am not me. »You*re listening ?« »I feel as though I*ve met you before« »Well, sorry to disappoint, but you haven*t« Mirrors should never be at war. I am beginning to wonder if it*s right to dethrone him. You must !, she is whispering – & let*s skidaddle ! Every muzzle is a puzzle. No sweet kiss ; no rites of message. I am beginning to think. Let us repair to her lips, I say. We walk & swim & slide & play hide&seek in every crevice, descending, ascending, wondering where am I, in what art (or

oblivion) where dreams can be the confessional stammering of innocence. I am laughing my head off in the balloon screaming *yes ! *yes ! *yes ! weightless dreaming flying from side2side loving every moment of sweet-sour torture through tastes of passion fruit slush mush exploding haloes in disrobed time.

So much warmth, dreams of ancient regret steamed in dragon blood of time so tears of sorrow are both answers & questions & give & take winged light fire & brimstone freeze & gladness, a bargain, prosthetic innocence for vanity & chaos ; a pain bargain. I am listening. She is saying get out ! ! . get out ! ! ! ! , time is of extreme importance : dreams tumbling into chance into dreams into fear as one would wish to take oneself out of desire, the wage, urges to renounce piety & gallantry, in recesses of an age whose fealty to treason is its flowering, looting the human bounty of pleasure as a trick of destiny.

I am (by chance) disillusioned. She is listening too – she says everlasting is now. In this sense, I am not the reasonable one. I am beginning to enjoy the challenges of passage. More light into hearts flowing through endless chains of love to silence trekking a mystic swamp of anthurium & spotted daffodils ; vanity, perforated incomprehensible allure : so touch precious the formlessness of time, petals coated forever hoist their flag in milk, an emptiness, a battle never won, never meant to be ; only being cross, crucible, curved softly so nicely despair is flattened out & shoved under the door to desiring the self & finding satisfaction in cruelty, sadness of being, silence, roaring bliss of 69 steps to the place of secrets, unconscious of the unconscious, mind having a non-mind of its own, desert, oasis, peace of love ; absence ; blue nights, indigo, a flower opening, closing, full of emptiness, priory of cat*s feet abysmal rising from graves devoted to mistakes pretending to be feelings, voidavoid, tiptoeing through Orchidia, weaving in & out of shells of ecstasy, each

one a world without images, voluptuous, relentless & orderly as Wonder-of-the-World leaves compounded into innocence, all horizons on the roof, having only to reach there, to have orchids wear your feelings as masks, emptiness, time as a reliable option, emptying oblivion into the palm of one*s h&, wait ! – a star, all he wished for : dew sparkles, nothing quite like nothing melting into meltings to skipping across logs as music maketh monkeys face rechoices of the impossible, sucking time in, exploring the weakest link of inseparability, coming & going, letting one*s access points carry through to all occasions & circumstances – she listens to her strengths : I*m listening too !

I am tired… I can*t go on – I*m staying here… I know where I am – but no farther… piety on wheels run no faster than a smile. »I promise ! I promise ! !« No, no !, don*t make any promises – stay right where you are – protect his illusion – cling to walls of touch – keep him inside – he doesn*t know (as yet) he is not real.

Hearts are from unknown realms of the soul. Close your eyes & look : the bus sits on its haunches. A blue gnat wind comes in from the north dismantling expectations. A miracle on legs. He is big. He is man. He is as big as a school bus. Bigger than dreams. Bigger (& fiercer) than memory. The wind claws its way in & makes him stagger. He straightened himself.

He is between tenses. Crystal clear tears moonlight as mirrors. Earth shakes ; the heavens roar ; the full moon bobs & weaves & tries to pitch like stars, but there is no hitter ; & the balloon is filled with red-nosed clowns. He begins to melt down.

His body forms a puddle at his feet. Bit by bit, he loses himself. Time sits astride his neck. Wind rages perplexed & vex. The sky turns flaming purple purple yellow blue. He is melting. Fate is compromise illusion. Clowns are dancing. I am watching the birth of a sawed-off toothpick. OK, here he comes – he will enter laughing. » !A*b*r*a*c*a*d*a*b*r*a !« Where angels fear to thread, walk softly. There*s nothing to stop him. Give him only a few words. Tell him ›cause because‹ hearts are never broken, only bruised sometimes, as minds battered, rejoicing, enemies within, all clothed in sin, art is the future, always so nice to meet her,

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where life & dreams are manicured screams, & time now as we know it, innocence of revived spirits of pure wit in the bottomless pit. Time survives with dignity when mixed with teardrops & honeydew kisses. »Silence is too dangerous« ! ! He*s coming, he*s coming ! ! Man, man, man ! Run & hide. He*s tinier than a straight pin. Now he*s climbing trees & hacking his way through a forest of light in P&ora*s box, but will have no delight – come in, come in ! ! Let him have his cake & eat me too, devouring orchids left, right & centre derailing any curve of tongues of

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flames divine as chaos remorse – he*s in the hood of the neighborhood, but only for a tickle; & in now free-style diving into history & futureness, climbing up, diving, imploring, spreading joy : let him be – no, no ! !, stay where ur ! – just !do !asI !say !

*JOY * JOY * JOY * JOY * JOY * JOY* »Save the last kiss for me«… »If you want to transfer»… You are here, &, for that, suffer.

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Turbulence & deceit are your shock promises of triple perfect impossibilities on the run from belief. We hold them equally impossible. Which is why I*ve let you tell your story. Every language is a ghost, & so too silence. I was listening.

He floated in. He was looking for me. He did not trust reality. He would be without heavy burdens. Was it heaven or a valley of mirrors ? or the infectious noise of silence ? I have run myself down to dreams. To break means to come. Stinging to be is the bee. The light within us is darkness shining, starkly bright in the midnight of everything. I am reminded of nothing. I meet them at the edge of the lake of orchids. I do not fly into a rage. I tell them : I am here to do some cropping. The peacock is now holy vulture stripping flesh from metaphors & ravages of pity. The fighting begins, one against one, a clash of love outside of history. One disappears, one stays the course of suspicion.

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I take a dream & let it spin into control. The end is too easy. He falls. These things do happen. Know (then) why. He is not the one. I am. She is listening. She listens to a scream that scurves & blisters & shakes the wings of angels. She has seen everything & now she shares the vision. Had I stumbled upon the ambiguity of time ?

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He is all yours now, she says – you have but one chance to deliver, so use it in ways it*s never been appreciated. You are the one. No one else matters. He is trapped in mirrors. Ad infinitum st&s still like the wind creeping before it walks. Reflections are your weapons – &, so, reflection-proud beyond realms of history, beyond memory too : &, soon, even more than that from every entrance to the cave.

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»If you want to transfer your memory, go right ahead« »If you*re not taking a chance, why are you here ?« S& dancers kiss their reflections. I used those same yellow mirrors to deflect his every blow. He is dazzled by reflections. The evening sun goes down on its knees. What then to do, when Eternity doesn*t pull thru ? Nature recaps his bidden gift.

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Time no longer enjoys technicalities of human nothing of lightning touch thunderbolts of dreams screams a lion roaring as he turns the corner turning away from having turned against himself. The trump is, she*s listening ; & watching ! She is monitoring my thoughts. There are three sides to every word.

I do not turn, – I turn away. There is no longer excuse for not being. I am listening too. I am being chased by a green lion… I am ready to give up… I become a cat with wings… I dance & swirl & fly without why… I l& on the lion*s back… I bite the lion*s nose… light, night dense sweep evaporate delight. The lion turns into the woman who picked me up that evening, & into an amorous leopard. She is lying on a bed of blue roses. The 4-poster is diamond. I lick my lips & kneel at the side of chance. I st& on the running board & shoot from the hips. Yes, only an embrace can save the human race. I am getting more than I bargained for.

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Her kneecaps are delicious. I feel the feeling. I know now what they seek in me. They believe I have the key to happiness. There really isn*t a thing I can do now to convince them otherwise. They don*t want me, they want what*s inside of me. But I am all that*s left. I st& up. Looking back brings the future into focus as I stumble around fallen memories. Time too keeps its fingers crossed. Through her ½closed eyes I saw the enemy. Hesitation & despair were stumbling blocks for jumping over time (as art of being) without having, without meaning, or meaning to have, wanting only more, intimately so ; & being fierce ancient cabbage stepping away from the edge of darkness – your witness, your only mistress. O, fate, ride the wings of my heart before you depart.

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I begin (then) to swallow my dreams. Answers become questions of virtue. What is goodâ&#x20AC;&#x160;? What lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x160;? A peep in cleavage valley, valley deep blinks. I swallow fear like an ice-cold bear. The lion, disappearing into himself, stuck it*s tongue out & hoped for the best.

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Whorls of light begun absconding with shadows. I would decide to follow those footprints in the snow. Fire raged on the other side of Paradise Mountain as reflections of roses becoming one shatter laughter into shards of love. I climbed in & had the rose cover me with sheets of milk & honey.

The absence of taste is cause for panic. But not this time, not within these reflections, these walls, these voices rising from lips of a thous& petals, these winged samples, moist as roasted ooohs & aaahs infuriate dancing fire light to light darkness fire dreams melting footprints looting the cave. & I stay where I am. No stumbling around in circles as though God alone knows what he does not knowâ&#x20AC;&#x160;: to taste & not know life is to miss out on chances not taken as roads not followed in the snow, pictures of lost pleasures, perforation of the lion in a blue fish tail dancing with me to the edge of time & falling into his arms with a thud as I hurry across the snow. But, she was listeningâ&#x20AC;&#x160;: (a) do not be fooled by taste (b) embrace only the impossible. &, I was listening too. I had been for the longest time, & was ready now to explode.

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The sound of clashing lips & dancing purple bubbles is a wake*up call to action in the nick of time. Everything tells me too I should not be blinded by suspicious desire. Yes & No are might & may. I am reeling from being mere peeling when I would rather be ruins of emptiness (c) always create love as ripened despair (d) the secret I carry is tearing me apart (e) a pause that nauseates (f) torn between similarities, dangling pleasure, the pain of victory silk, satisfaction, having made peace with snow ; what else ?

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& we were at the mouth, fighting for our very lives & wading through a forest of disguises & reappearances – fighting our way across pink purple vegetation in a winged shell. The moon (g) took one last look at us & closed its eyes. had dreams, saw a passing light & wrapped it around his neck as I rode the lion into white mountains & peaks of exciting raw taste eatmoreness of fate as one would not come to know it unless the lake empties itself of teardrops & remains the best trap at h& as we fight in muddy soul

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out of soul silence as decoys quackquack kiss & tell me what to do. I left my memories to be sewn into the wound. I rode out on the lion & aimed my spear at what would hurt sweetly most. The scream was loud & clear as satisfaction.

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Why of what would wither be except (h) unless time is restored to its former gloryâ&#x20AC;&#x160;; although, for the moment, a vague consideration as I let him taste my shoe & drove anguish through his heart (i) & the last thing I want you to do, she says, is clean up after the battle (j) I worked myself to the bone dragging heavenly bodies from sacred space & feeling blessed to be showered with kisses & sentences so crisp they create entrances to the cave (k) even now I hear them screaming (l) how, as devoured, any license to be happy is obtained by howling silence. He is on the outside now.

He rides his memories down river to open seas. Kisses fight for the spoils of pleasure. Life is a story card held up by passion. There is still nothing so hard melting like lard. No, not even sorrow or a sunny tomorrow. This river, like an arrow*s quiver, is not supposed to deliver â&#x20AC;&#x201C; only to carry the heavy love of burning bush inside the heart, smoking out the thinness of the gloveâ&#x20AC;&#x160;; its shyness. Take me back to where you found me, he is saying thanks for everything (m) pity, frayed at the edges, burnt by the glare of opportunity (n) we get into the savior*s car & drive until he says STOP (o) the wind is horribly horrible (p) for hours we drive & it looks as though there is no place willing to be home (q) we are not worried. We get there. Just in time. Every greed leaves an eagle in need.

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»I am staying here« The sky is wild yellow blue on the borders & as remote as curiosity (r) & like everybody*s &roid skeleton we walk out to the desert & come to a crystal hole. I follow him. »I do want to know more« »What next« ? »Where to from where« ? »To the end« »The end« ? »Yes, the end of vertigo.« »To the universe then« ? »Yes – & even beyond now«

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»I don*t underst&« »I haven*t the time to be anything« (s) Memories of innocence bite (t) I stop then. I can go no further. The self I honor is inside of me. In every heart there is a missing part ; & in every cave something after which to rave.

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I can do nothing about something happening in another part of the universe coiled inside me (u) I am driving, looking, seeing everything & then nothing ; not even innocence ; not even ripeness of touch (v) or sound of the skies breaking away & caving in & waking up the world (w) faces of the sky taking off into silence, mother of time kissing beyond ecstasy to just desserts (x) for the love of joy, & back to being alone as art (y) let falling things fall, life deepens, mystery deepens (z) we keep from falling over ourselves. Winged lions over Manhattan unfreeze & fly off into night disappearances molded by invisibility & silence.

As the cave, always there, invisible, puffing out, whistling through the needle*s eye, st&s on the rise beyond the house & watches the sky being torn apart & bitten by ferocious dog clouds. Joy ; the passionate ate passion ; Joy ; & now I*m all alone. all woman, only one left – or so I thought ! &, where (before) there had been a shower of green coral snakes chasing dreams indoors now only memories ; chains; memories & the cave, peacockvultures in ermine robes pirouetting at the entrance, pleased, waving back, a great roar of silence & a rain of roses on the back of gold leaf petals : & the cave, blushing, lies between satin sheets of irony & pride. Each touch makes me a prisoner of love. Better than better being best when worst than kisses I curse lost embraces for leaving traces of honey & s& on my lips. For once tho, ½ a life is better than death.

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Spurred on by the loveliness of desire bled of shadows, I watch my memories burning brightly on the funeral pyre lit by irony. Had I succeeded in becoming the ambiguity of time ? So eager was History to unveil misery or the cloak of the just, you hired me out to be the lowest bidder. I am in a carriage, & deeply upset by my dreams. My eyes shudder. I am wide open. There is no defense. Age destroys reason & replaces it with emptiness.

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All else is the echo cry of love : but who shouts now so lovely : vanity ? Sheets of irony & pride should not be used to cover promises I make because I do not have to keep them; do not have to be a transparent crocodile jumping for love, & would not have to get down on my knees & say, This world I see, this world in me, galaxy to gravity, I am Glory, & pity, & broken kisses, a wounded heart

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awaiting invitations from memories whose end is the ash on my fingertips & the rain, tears of snakes, love freezing to death between attention divided between spoils of vanity & enrichment of prophecies: sun tyrant, love, pain, having waited all night for liberty bell, for this moment, this comfort wrapped in ice & barley, living as a wound, as those kisses strewn at the feet of… at your feet – at the feet of measureless grace.

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I underst& what it means to weep inside once the cave lies between sheets of irony & pride ; & waiting; waiting, waiting for you. As I avoid feelings that are dependent on meaning & nature. As I believe there are twelve moments of silence in a teardrop ; & one in a lifetime. Yes. I am. Woman. Emptiness. Dreambeing. Fulfillment. That*s me. One is always alone. The holy ghost is a happy boast of more to come. The world disappears from emptiness ; without end, or amen. Without shaking up happiness.

Or, she is an angel in a car, & the top is down. »There are penalties for the inarticulation of desire« »You see only my wings, & not what stings« I drive from one emptiness to another. Time wobbles. There are streets. But no people. Buildings empty as my heart. Distortions emptied of belief & freed from memory. Canopies of the known unknown & unknown unknowns, unconscious becoming in turn unconscious of unconscious kisses in a twister. Could I be looking for the love of my karma, another to take me away from all this & refashion my soul into invisibility & silence ? She passes : vacancy ; the wind howls. Time melts like hungry snowflakes.

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She*s the one who entered & gave his wings strengthâ&#x20AC;&#x160;: blue magic hearts ennobling him to be walking out with Gina, & lying down with tomorrow yesterday. The entrance to the cave is festooned with crystal mermaid teardrops. She was the one leaving with a monster in each h&, her own wings soiled by teardrops. I am a guest in the cave of love. I am the true sweetness of life. I look deep into myself & turn to snow fantasies. Every step undermines what is true. Rain falls on the lips of beauty outside a time measured by insolence. There is a time for everything & a time for nothingâ&#x20AC;&#x160;; & high time for violets blue & honey too. While love & love alone heals the future.

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I have long trusted in shadows, but holy pigs understood better the language of quicks& & earthquakes. Holding on, screaming, O, shaking the temple, he walks across dry ice to the bridge taking us to heaven. Bales of colors roll past on moments saying haunt yes to memory knows. »I*m sorry. but…« »Kisses, yes – vanity, no ! – regrets – for not wanting less while wishing for more.

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In whom does God believe ?« Fate, loving beyond the self, is an important distraction – tiptoeing across quicks&, returning to the cave, riding away on blue unicorns. »We do keep losing our moments & are lost« I close my eyes & enter a new world.

Ecstasies search for treasures buried in the wound of life. Agony disappears into nothingness. I feel as though I have been drilled by metaphors. Maybe so. I live alone atop this hill, a fish with two hearts. To be truthful, for once, I*ve lived here since dog days of my flight from secrets. Snowflakes as big as shovels are still not enough to destroy my golden hovel. I am stubborn ; yes ; very, very stubborn. I hold on for dear life & only let go when I scream Joy. Like violets, your purity is impure ; & bloom; but so too everyone haunted by beauty. I am more than all woman now, & nothing else at times as joy the passionate eats passion.

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I am, yes, the fate of circumstances, & time without meaning. Maybe a good thing. I don*t know. I only know I live alone atop this rainbow hill & have been here since dog days you enjoy me, but let my home st& tall & proud. She*s listening.

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All I hear is the silence of noise. ÂťCover the cave with yellow shroudsÂŤ You have come all this way to find out the value of a kiss. The only value I know is the price of love. Of course, my kisses have wings. I make the strongest ones for blowing down mountains. I love myself.

Passion pure for passion, the value I ration : ten of this, of that ; mathematics of erotics. God alone knows how much things cost in these parts. So I live, & wait, a creature of inner space. » ? You love me, don*t you« ? »Passion is greed for hunger« I open my heart to you. Watch your steps ! Joy ; the passionate paves the cave with kisses ; Joy.

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Everything is this moment jumping through a screen of dreams romancing footprints in the snow. The one who enters & the one who leaves are one. Desire is being isolated by reflections. A whale drops from the sky. I breathe a sigh of relief. The heel of time sees.

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I am speechless. Enjoy me. Just don*t attempt walking through bubbles on hot pink water to rescue angels.

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In & out we go, coming & going, returning to echoes of lost voices making joyful noise of birdprance anguish, the fallen dead, the Â˝dead, all these lost

moments, these forgotten secrets of time, cat*s feet, chewing gum wrappers, aloes, blowing mango seeds, memories, never the same, memories of other memories, other trees, other feelings, rapture, the journey, as time st&s on its head & sees what it takes to look again inside the cave, yet leaves me no choice but to taste prime time laughing snow dimples falling into one more kiss.

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Story Graphics – layout – illustration Photography * Cave photography DeSalle portrait photography Nikita portrait photography Kisses from Watercolours * unless otherwise credited

Lennox Raphael © Kenn Clarke © ´ © Iva Brajdic Peter Jon Larsen © Tam Nguyen © Nico Rohmer Danielsen © Kendra Lou Lars Kræmmer ©

Eggshell beauties Desalle – Iva – Nikita Trysts of innocence Sofie – Julie – Celestine – Sophia – Ene Last woman on earth Iva Woodpecker Celestine Half a ghost Iva Dark innocence Iva Manhattan Kendra Lou Clowns are dancing Cal&a – Daphne – Rhoda Watch your steps Agatha Rain – simple & bitter Iva Bus man &ers Bo – Agatha Leopard woman Nikita Mirrors Kenn