Cunt Norton

for Ron Palmer At the still point of the turning world, slowly like a wave at Ocean City, at the still point where I dance and wiggle it around and it shivers, do not call it fixity where past and future really move.  So I start fucking you again towards neither ascent nor decline, so I take the tape off your mouth, no dance, and there is only the dance, and we tongue huge globs of spit.  So then I say where, and I cannot say how long you fucked it up between my legs, tried to hump it from the practical desire, the release from floating. So this is why my pussy is the outer compulsion, yet surrounded, driving your car. Do you ever feel like moving, Erhebung without motion, do you like to be hurt? Sometimes I like to suck the world, the old made explicit, sometimes I understood strength, honey.  Suddenly I want to fuck you, the resolution of its partial horror hot pink when I come, leave your back polka-dotted, the weakness of the changing body. Protect my nipples, they’re erect.  Tell me I’m a good girl, which flesh cannot endure. Time past is barely darker than the rest of them, though all I think of is fucking you.  O darker pink!  The clouds were huge and white and my whole body was one, I had not mouth nor flesh nor fleshless; neither from nor flatter, you held me inside like Voodoo, neither arrest nor movement.  And do my pussy, a wet one.  Only you.  Or when I gathered movement faces would meld together into a folded point, the still point, there would be hearts together with sweat.  My tits only say, there we have been—but I cannot stop typing these words, cannot stop dragging to place it in time.  The inner freedom you know when I let you touch my suffering, my inner tongue crying out for you to fuck her.  By a grace of sense a white light stills my hard clit and my nipples poke without elimination, we’re both new my dear.  So, how far is your cock from completion of its partial ecstasy, pile of flesh laundry, and when you fuck my mouth the past and the future is woven in your dribbling cock.  So you put your cock inside mankind, from heaven and damnation I’m a violin while the notes last.  A little consciousness precedes the beginning because the rest of your body can’t return to the beginning after the end.  And all is always your cock bigger and darker, and then I break under the burden, under the tension of your red mouth and I kiss you but you will not stay in place, will not stay still.  I wadded my washcloth up in a ball, chattering, assailing you with words, but there just isn’t enough leverage.  Temptation, the crying shadow, is wet all the time these days, you disconsolate chimera, the detail of you sitting inside my cunt.  Sometimes desire itself is movement.  Gently like a baby I suck your cock for the cause and end of movement, timeless, quickly and viciously.  I want to pinch you, squeezing sunlight even while the dust moves.  There—tell your cock to behave itself!  The areola foliage, quick now, here, now, always—the nipples are pale too—my whole body was a tongue since our coexistence.  Or say the end so I couldn’t speak, once when the earth was beginning, once on your belly button, once on your abyss.  Words strain, I crack them with my teeth, they slip, slide, perish, decay with imprecision.  We cool our chests, press our shrieking voices, scolding, mocking, your words pillow on my skin, right here in the desert I am attacked by voices, and the wash cloth across my pussy doesn’t dance, hear my loud laments as I fondle your cock, drink your spit, that lantern of movement.  Desirable love is in itself unmoving, poked out like two extra eyes, undesiring except in the aspect of this scar—so I get down and hold you, unbeing and being sudden on the shaft of my tongue, you fuck my cunt which rises the hidden laughter of the children in my cunt and we’re standing up fucking, ridiculously wasting the sad time stretching before us. return to SHAMPOO 35