Sex and death snuggling on the sweetheart bench swinging from that fateful tree.
Apples, cherries, fruits of life making good pie, good wife.
Eve bit his apple, or was it snake? Enkidu tasted the ripeness of his harlot-lass.
For these tastes we set our path invoking holy wrath.
Life is residue, accumulating in our electric veins. Congested thoughts cleared by capricious coughs.
We hack and spit in the quiet dark moments looking into the passing smile of infinity discovering that which has discovered us …and will one day cover us.
“To the house which none leave who have entered it On the road from which there is no way back.”
Stop the world, stop it all I want to be delivered from this path, taken out of this vast tragicomedy and returned to the comfortable retreat of childhood fantasy.
To the place where everything makes sense where all is designed and produced, serviced and not replaced.
Looking over at her luscious, tender garden with the new lust of young hands the impotent, naive dream fades with the rising of his manhood.
In the fading twilight, whispering intimately the creaking swing sings the primordial song.
Embracing each other under the maternal tree pregnant with knowledge, black, white and ultimately grey death is smothered in sex.