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