jayivan

The black room,
a place as pure space,
a thing within-without itself,
surface and substance,
word and thing,
where sex is sex and nothing else,
where cocks are out, in hands or mouths
or any limb from human sprouts
there gripped and turned unquestioned out,
eyes-wide sweat streams pulsing down
gurning cheeks, jizzle-crowned,
hopes abandoned,
all ye fears,
turned
to salt,
a stain,
a mark,
a line,
a dot,
a joy that found its missing core,
outbursts from hadron’s godly swirl.

I may not play roles,
but I can be different me’s:
it’s so slippery