I've run out of images, used up the erotic exploits of the gods. Anatomy limits the possibilities for penetration and thread is not dear. It's easy to succumb to stasis, savage inaction, shuttle dropped to the floor, my favorite cagey dodge about a hole in aboutness when it's all about the loom, defunct. I miss the odd balance of a body on another body stretched and resting, like sleeping on a slight incline you didn't sense when you pitched the tent.
Bipeds have it good.
The last time the tapestry of ravish actually got seen was when the women saw the Resurrection, the tanned ankles of Jesus, wept on and ringed in their grips, Jesus on the road to the Emmys, decked out and strolling between sex and the thought of sex. There's still the fans, the fantasy of a fair share of art in punishment. Mail from one Wanda who suggests the buffeted souls in lust are served up buffet-style with hunks of parmigiana. Snapshot of the track star from Mineola Prep who arrives at last at the Arctic Circle, strips, and pumps the air with pride. A woman in Kissimmee says she killed a giant spider behind her toilet bowl only to watch in horror while its body released a thousand offspring, bitties that poured to the corners while the mama shriveled small.