consc i  o   u sness lies 

somewhere inbetween

i

and
u

"I am alive,"
says the
tiny
rapid poem
of your wrists;

fair and not fair alike–
both soft
and hard with
beating
inconstantly
heart,

      (you will i will)

which won't but briefly
kiss perhaps
**** perhaps

saying lewd thing of
mouth through ear
to air;

art which
must have both
light and darkness–paired,

i love you
And

(after ******* your throat)

you are so pretty
in short dark
hair eyes
cut by running

with little
rills of
eyeliner
and sweat;

cheaks alive with
glowing of
luster and fair
youth–perfuse;

firm and supple
through the
hip and belly:

i want to be
always kissing
and tasting
deeper
into your thighs.

some kissing,
of flesh parts
under my tongue

–finger fulll–

tastes something
salty a little
musk and slick
through curtain
of sharply

tiny, cut
closely to skin

and rubs my cheeks raw.

"People love being weak. They are in love with with their weakness–flaws. This is due to the twisting of their own egoism: when they see someone strong and free of flaw or worry they must invent some way to justify their own value by contrast. They take those traits which define the capable, noble and powerful and redefine them; make them into hallmarks of stupidity and shallowness. They make claim that what is truly good is what is weak, flawed and incapable–what is like them.

What is most noble is what suffers the most. Who is the greatest victim is the greatest good, superior to all others. Thus you can see them in action: arguing for their victimhood, trying to be the weakest and most pathetic. Busily inventing with creative fervor new statuses of being to which to cling.

What is more profound, more deep and compelling than one in pain?

The irony could never be more clear in that the weak grow strong in their weakness to justify their secret longing to be superior to the strong. Are they not after all damaged, and yet still surviving? What is more brave than that? What is more laudable or commendable?"