To blow all the soot out and into the ground, she can take it. udder mother. I want to be touched light until I am only particles, waving through the miracle of the physical soak. Painting to find out what shape the universe really is. The plentiful mountain of physical desire. The climax of clustered tickles and sneezes. Eat dirt and penetrate worms. Like the creature that you are, unbiased, unbounded by ideas, other views of what the prism is. The bushy toed tangled tongue and pounding finger of orchids and alien drums. Dig in old dog and worship the holy sex of sacred synchronicity. No vagina or penis required, for that duo represents the deeper duality, the one that can keep you as moist or hard as the rock inside your mind. Here the muses collect there sonnets and whisper sexless pleasure where the arrow of time cuts trough the stale pillow of yesterday's daring crummy mirage. Watch how you watch another soul, do you see the creature in the key hole of the eyes gold. Or are you dripping like horny dogs waiting in the wings for the hospital calls.
Time to clean the scars and bare them with no shame like a sweet whistle, like a clear broth ready to heal.