The air is thick, thick like flesh that knows no touch,
burning in secret moments beneath the skin,
breath—hot, shaking, wet against the pulse of desire.
It clings to us like sweat, like fire, like longing.
Scent of skin, of hunger, of desperate need,
something ancient, an instinct older than breath.
The world itself quakes—rational thought splinters,
fractures into stardust beneath our hands.
Logic is a wisp, a dream long forgotten.
What exists now, what is, is only the moment.
The primal call. The burning, yes, yes, yes.

I pull her into me like the tide pulling the moon, raising the oceans
an irresistible force that trembles in the marrow.
She is like an untamed fire, raw and pure, passionate and pulsing with a heat, a solar flare from the sun
that only I can ignite, only I can answer. Ready to burn and glow
She falls into me, into the abyss of my hunger, my depths, my eyes, my touch.
A body, a soul, a willing vessel made to burn, ready to be transformed, aching oh desires ache,
No words, no hesitation. Only the body.
Only the heat. Only the rhythm of me inside her and out, hands that explore uncharted lands,
touch is a command, a gospel written in sweat.
Her body bends beneath me, a canvas trembling.
Her breath a melody—a song of submission,
and she feels it, feels the worship that consumes her.
A sculptor’s vision, hands tracing perfection,
hands caressing, bending, breaking the earth into her.
Each stroke, each movement, a violent caress of art.

And there’s no mistake in creation.
No imperfection in the work of lust.
She is the clay. I am the master,
moving her, bending her, folding her
like silk under the weight of my breath.
She arches, trembling with an ache she knows will
soon be answered by my molten hands.
Her legs, taut with yearning, quiver as my mouth
paints her skin, brushes against her pulse,
marking the divine territory of my desire.
A dance, no, a war—each movement a battle,
each ******, a weapon forged in fire.
The air trembles with the storm we create,
a storm that cannot be tamed, only ridden.
Her body cries out—a symphony of sound,
a pure anthem that carries us both
to heights only gods understand.

I shape her, mold her into new forms—
into something so ancient, so untouchable
that the heavens would weep to witness it.
Her chest rises, desperate, a temple of heat
aching to be touched by my divine hands.
Each curve, each fold of flesh, speaks to me—
a map to follow, a map that leads nowhere
but into the throes of desire, raw and wild.
The sculptor knows what to do with it,
knows where her body aches for more,
where it burns with need for my relentless hands.
I force the air from her lungs,
force the rhythm of my pulse into her,
until nothing exists but our bodies,
trembling, shaking, begging for the world to collapse.
I am the beast. She is the muse.
Together, we break the laws of nature.
Together, we are a war between flesh and fire,
a war neither can win, only surrender to.

Hands dragging, claws marking,
lips tasting the wild language of hunger,
the world is a blur outside our fevered minds.
The earth could crack, the stars could fall—
nothing matters. Not now. Not when we are this close,
this alive. My mouth on her, her skin beneath my hands,
sweat dripping from the tips of our fingers,
our bodies painted with the fragrance of lust.
It’s pure, a violent purity,
an honesty too real for anyone to touch.
We move together, as one, as creatures of instinct,
each ******, each pull, a revelation,
each touch a divine act of creation.
She is lost. I am lost.
Together, we are found.

And the rhythm shifts—
my body becomes the drum,
her body the beat.
We become an ancient dance
from the corners of forgotten time,
a dance no one has seen,
a dance that leaves the heavens screaming.
Every motion, every sound, a note in the song,
a song so primal, so pure,
it’s the beginning of the world
and the end of it all in the same breath.

Her body trembles with the call of my touch.
My fingers trace paths on her skin,
like an artist mapping out the future,
and she is my canvas—soft, open, trembling,
waiting for the stroke that will change everything.
Her body melts under mine,
a wave crashing over her will,
shaping her, forming her,
until nothing is left but the masterpiece
we create together.
She answers, she responds,
her body moving in wild harmony
with my ferocity.
We are symphony. We are storm.
We are destruction and rebirth,
burning through the universe in a single,
shattering moment of pure passion.
The touch of my hands is an apocalypse,
and the earth cracks wide open beneath us,
swallowed whole by the fire of our union.
The oceans rise, roaring, tidal waves crashing,
swallowing mountains whole,
washing away the pain, the distance, the barriers.
The heavens crack open, as if torn asunder,
as rivers rage and flood,
as volcanoes erupt,
spewing molten passion that ignites the stars.

In the wild silence that follows,
she is breathless, undone,
but alive, more alive than she has ever been.
I watch her, and she sees me—
not as a man, but as a force of nature,
a creator, a destroyer, a lover,
a god who has pulled her from the depths of herself
and made her something new.
A creation.
A goddess in the hands of a sculptor.
In the hands of a beast.
In the hands of a man.

The winds howl, like the cries of the world itself,
and the rivers, like serpents, twist and coil
around our bodies, urging us further.
Her breath is the storm,
my heartbeat the thunder.
The mountains bow to us,
our bodies crashing like jagged cliffs,
shattering, reshaping, remaking the earth beneath us.
The oceans stretch to meet the sky,
swelling with desire, with passion,
as every drop of water becomes fire.
There is no distinction between us,
between the sculptor and the muse,
only the raw, endless hunger
that makes the universe burn with us.
Every breath, every moment,
every movement, an eruption—
a force greater than any volcano,
greater than any flood,
greater than the universe itself.

The world is different now.
We are different now.
Together, we are the fire
that consumes all else.
We are the storm that changes the sky.
And I—the sculptor—my hands still,
my breath slow,
watch as the earth reshapes itself in her,
in us.
And as we lay there, tangled,
the world begins again.
The silence is thick, suffocating—
but it is the silence of something reborn,
the silence of two people who have
become more than they ever were.
The world shakes itself awake,
and I, the sculptor, and my muse,
are the beginning of it all.
And it will never end.
Not in this lifetime.
Not in this moment.

Lust was never the sin.
Lust was the art of being alive.
We rise. Again.
And it begins anew.

Who am I?
Not formed of parts,
but a fracture,
splintered by the weight of forgotten names,
the weight of nothing.

An assembly of fragments
swallowed by echoes,
sunk into the hollow of things never spoken.

TIME, split by fire, veins dripping with prophecy,
shivering in the hollow,
a forgotten scream,
shouting at empty rooms
(what have we become? WHAT?)

THE BODY, bent under the weight of hunger,
muscles wrapped in rust,
aching for truth
that is never here.

DESIRE, liquid and restless,
eating away the flesh of tomorrow,
always reaching, always breaking
(Is this life? Is this all?)

HANDS, cracked and bleeding,
trying to hold what was never meant to be held,
they tremble,
they grasp,
they tear
(why does it never stay?)

THE VOID, speaking in whispers,
it swallows everything—
truths, lies, your name, my name,
they are gone, reduced to ash,
all of us slipping through its fingers.

FATHER, who is a shadow,
MOTHER, who is a wound,
SISTER, who is silence,
BROTHER, who is a scream

THE SCARRED WOMAN, draped in nothingness,
her skin a memory,
her breath a cold wind,
blowing through the cracks,
and she—disappears.

I,
nothing but a witness to my own unraveling
staring into the chaos,
grasping at pieces
I will never understand.

And still, I stand.
Broken.
Unfinished.

The Riptides of Desire
The sea
violent, endless
rips through us,
tearing our skin open,
salt & sweat,
bone,
breath
I am her storm,
she, my fire.
Waves crash
no,
we crash
our bodies,
splitting apart,
pulled apart by hunger,
fury,
desire—
my hands,
no longer mine
they are the tide,
carving through her flesh,
carving
pulling,
twisting,
dragging her under,
deeper
her skin
no, it’s not skin anymore,
it’s ocean,
waves crashing against us
against me
against her
our bodies locked,
twisted in the churn,
wet,
raw
Can you feel it?
She breathes me in,
she loves it,
the chaos,
the salt,
the burn
and the boat,
it’s nothing now,
a splinter in our wake,
floating, forgotten,
we are the ocean now,
together,
each ******,
each movement,
a wave crashing,
drowning in each other,
rising again,
faster, deeper,
until there's no air,
no thought,
only this
only us,
lost,
in the fury
the boat?
No,
it has forgotten,
it is the ocean,
and we are its fury.
Roar
like claws tearing bone,
skin is the world,
and I rip it open,
tasting heat,
tasting salt,
a vow,
my mouth like fire
every inch,
a storm pulling her,
dragging her body
into wreckage.
Her breath,
a wet snap,
gasping
skin splitting,
she loves it,
tearing apart,
not enough,
never enough.
We drown
together
in the swell
every motion,
a rip of sound,
bodies scream,
louder than the waves
the boat’s gone,
forgotten,
we are the ocean.

Sometimes Irony and Murphy’s Law
lend to each other.

The blind man leads the deaf man,
they debate honest politics
one can’t see, the other can’t hear,
while they are nicely seated
at the corners of the round table,
which has no corners but still divides.
The preacher damns the sinners
between paid confessions and rented beds,
his sermon reeks of whiskey and perfume.
He calls it redemption; she calls it a Tuesday.

The poet bleeds words,
the painter stains canvas,
the ***** does both, but she’s still a *****.
If she starved, she’d be a muse.
If she overdosed, she’d be a legend.
But she lived,
just another body in the gallery of wasted virtue.

The doctor dies in the waiting room.
The fire truck burns before reaching the fire.
The cop gets robbed at gunpoint.
The beggar wins the lottery,
gets hit by a bus cashing the check.
A man buys a gun for protection,
the burglar uses it against him.
The city floods after a decade-long drought,
the farmer's crops drown before the harvest.

We wage war in search of peace.
We bomb cities to set them free.
The soldier fights for his country,
dies nameless in foreign soil.
The treaty is signed,
and the killing begins again.

You save your whole life to retire,
then die before the check clears.
You pray for strength,
but your bones grow brittle.
You wait for love,
but when it comes, your hands forget how to hold.
You ask for honesty,
and they call you cruel,
when the only truth you find
is in between all the stale, day-old lies.

And when the show ends,
they’ll bury you in a suit you never chose,
in a box you paid for but never wanted,
under dirt you’ll never see
and they’ll say you’re at peace.

Isn’t that ironic?

What does the body do with a wound it cannot close?
A memory that just won't fade , a dream that replays a thousand times that you can't run from!
Thoughts that drown and swallow you from the inside out.

The wind shreds its own breath, bleeding rust between its teeth. Oh the taste of Iron ! All too familiar, all too real.
A mouth unhinges. Not to scream, not to pray—just to split, broken thoughts, empty.
Something shatters under the skin—bone, voice, meaning— lost , no where to hide.
a hymn reduced to marrow, an altar eaten from the inside out.
A stone convulses. A rib cracks sideways. A name chews through its own vowels.
The night is nothing but a muscle torn at the root, a cycle of endlessness wishing to wake,
Someone calls it silence. Someone else calls it a door, Someone else calls it just another day.

The sky folds its hands around your throat—gentle, terrible but real.
A shadow smears itself across the butcher’s glass, lipless, waiting.
It does not tremble. It does not bow. It does not ask for absolution.
There is no language left but sharpness
a blade taught to speak, a wound taught to listen.
The body clenches. The temple locks its ribs from the inside.
No light. No threshold. No key.

Bite down. The feast was never hunger—only teeth.
Only the **** where something holy used to be.
Only a body unraveling at the seams, ribs pried apart,
an opening that does not beg for entry, only release.
How much must be swallowed before the wind stops choking?
How much must be unfastened before a name becomes silence?

Something is laughing in the dark, carving its grin into the walls.
It does not starve. It does not sleep. It only breaks its own reflection.
The table is vertebrae stacked until they no longer stand.
Knives press their edges together, breathing their final, wicked breath.
The world shrinks. The marrow runs dry. The tongue dissolves into salt.
A prayer curls in on itself and turns to bone.
Something drags the night forward by its hair,
tearing the sky into something less than sky.

A door is opening, but not for you.
A mountain swallows a name and does not return it.
The wind waits, throat hollow, unrepentant.
What does a body do with a wound it cannot close?
What does a mouth do with a blade it cannot swallow?

How many doors must be devoured before the wolf walks through? Ready to chew upon the broken bones of the weak and innocent.