Arrièrre-goût de sèves
Le livre du vide médian, F. Cheng
The silent, fingering invasion of her orifice.
The one – and then the other.
Printemps, printemps – laissez aller!
The soul in calibration of an inner darkness,
a tongue it might have been as well –
tiptoeing gently in her arsy spring.
Ah, the delights of solemn, bitter taste.
Now, time is ending in its sensual now.
All is – and that is it.
No things that came,
nothing that comes.
Sheer lust evolves its little theatre,
a stage so quiet, a punctum so intense.
Slow plunges into depths unknown –
yet known so well.
This writerman, at dawn of day,
dug into soil to plant an early morning vigne vierge,
soiling the hands, with smells intense from argyle clay.
Mere acts, which convolute in this,
her matin presence and her voltage gay.
Zero degree of intercourse – with earth, with woman.
So like the gaze,
which penetrates the colours flowers sow in space.
Fictional desire of half the man I used to be.
To be – eternal.
To have is merely history.
Bevalt u dit blog, stuur het aan vrienden en kennissen.
Bekijk ook het andere blog: sierksma.wordpress.com
If you like this, send it to friends or acquaintances