Sex in the Library The upper-class men and bougie professors, men and or women of leisure, recline on unclean couches, questioning kisses like stapled stacks of graded papers, grasping at flesh like a lint remover, never pressing hard enough to arouse a pulse of pleasure, merely tracing the contours of reoccurring power structures. Eliterate under-classmen occupy spaces, bolted in oblivion muffled their moans between bit-lips hide themselves behind wood and stone, hiking skirts and shirts pulling down pants just far enough to expose flashes of sex, squatting in unused reading rooms beneath barren desks, blank, pagious, absent classes, aware of evil without ever knowing it or good. But you and I, two people who appreciate the written and unwritten words of the world, connoisseurs of literature, the subtext of sex and text, engorged with the fleshing and conflicts of characters, drop our leaves and unbind desire between the canon centuries of couplings, right and wrong, sing their song and swirl around us in an orgy of unfrustrated interstexuality, chanting in a chorus of tantric verse, speaking in licks of fire and smoke of breath, knocking over a shelf here, a movement there, an entire language where, until perch tie upon a heap of history's bindings, past and future arch their backs in a present gasp, eruption and destruction, the whole human's races, burning and beating hearts pounding and yearning for the propagation of something new, a need whose purpose could only be satiated by the couplings of two disparate forms, and the death of another. It was, after all, us and not Caesar ships that burnt Alexandria to the ground.