Writing at dusk

Now we are Writing

we are moving our symbols as if writing

as if  against the ruins of light 

as if the world were the cave and fire...

 or mere ashes in the tongue of bodies

looking for that First saliva

mouth-to-mouth

Now we are the Art of Writing 

on the very warm skin and friction of skin

infinitely otherwise infinitely more than kisses

looking for the First saliva

mouth-to-mouth

Now Writing is the Being of Becoming 

among Resting and trembling on rocks 

on very warm and ever more liquid rocks

This is my body on your tongue looking for the Future

Now the Past fears the Empire of the Future

the new Power of the First saliva

mouth-to-mouth 

Now Writing is Where you mean it All

and when my fear waits for a new heart of ours

you drink the alcohol among and between possibilities

you can and cannot trust in words and caresses on earth

you can and cannot burn your lips through the First saliva

mouth-to-mouth and attain forever 

the pure flesh of flamme

there is Writing against the light, the shade, the very core of darkness. Do not Cross the Alphabet! 

There are the oscillating symbols and a female anxiety in the desert,  meaning more than touching with the silence of the Alphabet: bare breasts and bare hands, altogether. 

Do not Cross the Alphabet! 

despite the immense nonsense 

off-shore 

abstract open godless caress

or trust

mouth-to-mouth

Mouth writes Skin

here you flow longer than Possible Time

one mouth writes Skin with Hours off-shore

you touch here the line off-chest

intensely you believe and doubt the Force

if you ever love again the mouth of my stream

you can cross the Infinite Void of Truth and sing along 

while bleeding more than Possible Body 

Art of loving and despising

The Art of Loving begins with birds and their blue spirits generating possible waves and possible veins. You say: this ocean is our flesh, one flesh boiling. I feel: this is the full understanding of a full Person.

Then, we do not know how. Novel winds just happen. It blows. The inner texture of change works deeply. And the self-understanding that pursues everything can also change at once.  Understanding blows and becomes a still chain of rocks, or bones, or symbols, a still chain of silence or muteness, unsaid power, enacted deeply by the boiling flesh. 
Now, we do not know how. The sacrifice happens without light nor darkness. Novel winds write the confused bodies, as if from scratch. We can loose all absolutes. We can break the absoluteness of language and intelligence.

We fell the strings of reborn godless guitars. We feel the Evidence. We fell One night before the End - or as if. 
Love cannot keep on kissing the same Mouth forever. The muscles around its lips look for a continuous loss. Muscles of love enjoy erring through or amongst other surfaces of unknown waves, vibrations, beginnings.
Here absolutely you love and despise loving. 
The art of despising clarifies the Art of Loving.

The blade of despisal is made of that radical metal which undoes all fibers of life. 

Only gods can survive the blades of despisal and keep burning, dancing, undergoing, working through their total denial of being.

Only radical lovers can understand the explosion of nothingness within blades of despisal. And only lovers can see the survival of despised, undone, life, as if they were absolute gods capable of suffering All and still remaining after All, working on the surface of a silent fire.

After seven days, and seven times seventy. After the plagues and the floods. After furies. Complete works of nonsense. Love means otherwise. Despise clarifies the muscles of lovers, their erring strength. Love insists on Loving otherwise through the Idea of Again. Uncomplete works open phrases of muscles and trembling.
Love blows otherwise the same again. Love says: the world remains the First Flesh of Lovers, still. 
Love insists on circling the first layer of naked bodies, saying: This Ocean is One Flamme Alone. This is us, on becoming, on understanding the Idea of Clarity and Darkness, perspiring altogether first symbols of birds and flammes, within blood and saliva
Kiss otherwise the same flesh, these red things, again