Sex is one of the nine reasons for reincarnation. The other eight aren’t important.
Henry Miller, Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch
CN: sex, kink, second person erotic address
Corporeal: of matter. From corpus: of the body. Material: earthly, from the ground. From materia: wood, timber, that which we build with. See also mater: origin, mother; and hylē: firewood, hearth.
There is nothing outside of sex. Sex is formless, an ocean of polyrhythms plural, pulsing, and porous. Pause: peel back my pretty language and pour yourself out (inhale). Pleasure-tense, in and out again: phonemes generate signs by rhythm, again-and-again-and-a (exhale). Matter curves into flesh; being flexes. Presence is expressed-sense, corpus in flushed anticipation. Doll-light, implication tiptoes between wandering breath, adjectives caressing nouns until they verb, illocutionary force clenching and releasing oh God please let me perlocute.
Everything touches and is touched. Contact is primordial, sense grammars emerging from chiastic repetition. Here, let me hold you until the world comes into view. Shh, gentle, gentle. Curl into me and know that you are good. Say it with me. Eros begets the knotted roots of a world unfolding as time crooks her fingers into the depths of the earth and beckons the sea. You’re being so good for me. I ribbon my tongue through the folds of language until meaning comes in response. When you read these words, where does the heat reside in your body? What does it tell you? Look into my eyes as I enter in and forget that you were ever expected to be anyone else but you. Let all signs drip in rivers of semiosis, the musk of history slick against the skin, and approach yourself renewed.
If I were to describe sex in detail, would that change the genre? I want to fuck you. The Unique that I am hungers for the Unique that you are, to devour and be devoured by the polyphony of your soul. You want to come back to my place? Significance multiplies across the skin, breeding topoi by which we come to understand and inhabit one another. Does that feel good? Past-present-future laces between the overlapping histories of flesh intertwining and in their conjoining comes the world. Let your fingers glide along the edge of logic and feel what cannot be said. Are you getting close? Re-read this all again on the edge of your release and kick away the ladder when you arrive. Oh God oh fuck.
Free love? As if love is anything but free! Man has bought brains, but all the millions in the world have failed to buy love. Man has subdued bodies, but all the power on earth has been unable to subdue love. Man has conquered whole nations, but all his armies could not conquer love. Man has chained and fettered the spirit, but he has been utterly helpless before love. High on a throne, with all the splendor and pomp his gold can command, man is yet poor and desolate, if love passes him by. And if it stays, the poorest hovel is radiant with warmth, with life and color. Thus love has the magic power to make of a beggar a king. Yes, love is free; it can dwell in no other atmosphere.
Emma Goldman, “Marriage and Love” from Anarchism and Other Essays
Note: I used to have another post on here with the same title. That one is no longer up, however.
Image: Lovers by Piroska Szanto (1986)
Fish In the Afternoon 