Oh, sweet ephebe. Are you cold? Are your toes warm?
I walk upright citizen but in my dreams, I run on all fours, swift and steadily clumsy. Stacked buxom and epicurean in ample bosom.
Slight shelf formed in the concave curve of lower spine conjuncting with the lift of rounded, stood and lit cheeks.
Callipygian ass. Firm round mammæ. Slight ripple of a stubborn tummy covering my unused womb where I metaphysically minister to the devotees calling themselves Moira’s Nudes.
Rosebud. Ease into the garden.
Come and let us attend the Chymical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz.
I tried to read the instructive booklet, fuzzy beast, but it was a bit confusing.
Something about the feminine and masculine now unified sharing a new womb, the regenerative apparatus giving both the capacity for pregnancy, both allegorically and through magical realism.
The poet didn’t eff his lady.
the lady tried to give him her body. Her Desire. you laughed. and prioritized your spiritual needs.
Her Love craves to be obtainable, tactile, nourishing, fun, wild and feral yet warm and protective.
Her love exceeds her desire/s.
Her love sacrifices her desires to enkindle the flame.
She who was Wittgenstein’s Mistress
read you clear now.
Do you read me: your desire came before your love.
How I howl.