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Wednesday, April 8, 2015

The ambience of my being 4/8/15

Life has provided a complexity to my weave,
levels in subtly and innuendo as fragrances
that intoxicate and allure.
Ever since I have discovered
that my orgasms are not procreation dependent,
it has been deeper ponders for me,
beyond the incest of meaning
or the stories I make up for myself.
Not for answers per se but more so
from that within me but beyond,
for I cannot claim indulgence
as the endgame of my existence.
It is now not even the treachery of the buildup
or the mockery of the release,
that is the storm of me.
It is not the euphoria in the moment
or the fulfillment of any throb towards fantasy.
Yes, my body is in the shriek of excitement,
furthered in the shimmer and the gleamings.
But I am provoked from within to sense more.
I want beyond the source of this howling.
I want the beyond of the language rules that allow for,
yes, inherently permit me,
from bellow to screech through me.
I am seeking the lips under the hood of my spirit
that consent to pronounce such with all of my body
in convulsings that shudder and quiver
in syncopation reigning upon me.
No, I want the vocalization beyond sing,
the joyous rage beyond howl,
the primal epitome of sound triumphant through me.
I want the orgasm, as a refined pronouncement,
to take a back seat to the realization
of the conscious soul of me.
I want the sound current simultaneously up my spine
and out the crown of me.
I want my orgasms as feathers
on the wings of the spirit-flight of me.
I want to be beyond an event to myself.
No more confounded by the gender bind.
I want to be lit up beyond composure,
un-claimable beyond recognition,
ever-permission by presence,
and eternal by aliveness in the welling stillness
and the profundity of my emotional encompassment
of the conscious, everlasting, ambience, of my being . . .


  

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