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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2010-08-01 | [Acest text ar trebui citit în english] |
With your thigh against mine,
hardly even touching, but just resting, nonchalant, against mine- and all the world, the spinning universe, in the barely-there press of your thigh... and where your forearm sometimes rested against mine- the brush of your hairs just crushing lightly against mine- and all the stars and the planets colliding and slipsliding... my heart thumping skin burning, galumphing and electrified; my churning heart chugging like a boiler way out bush late into the night the day your thigh rested, divested of thought, against mine... trapped in a swoon of take-me-real-soon, I'm drugged on this lust, my skin sunstruck head dizzy with wanting... out thighs touching, arcing across, like powerlines gone crazy in the thrash of a thunderstorm- the whipping licorice-rope lines not even touching but the blue-bottle spill arcing dangerously to the other and across the pitch sky... barely touching, but sparks of blue-white forking the sticky black night, illuminating the arched yellow throats of the willows underneath scorching the sweaty incense of eucalypts with the weird wild build-up of the dry-tongued storm... the lead stink of electrocution in the air- the tang of murder, a whiff of a blunt tree-stump smouldering somewhere... the sweet dusty sniff of lightning above the bush, the crackle of static lifting hair in the sudden hush... arcing across from one line to the next... the smell of burning mixed with the sweet, insane promise of the plodding and pelt of oncoming rain... and, at last... we are mesmerized by the sound of fat drops that we smelt splatting on the road, small meteorites of cool, coming closer, like a rattling clatter of cool arriving, driving home on the crackling tarpaper air...
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