ode to passion

dedicated to k.c.

brutal sea. brutal moon. brutal waves. and brutal foam birthing a multitude of bubbles dissolving on stones.
brutality is misunderstood.

you swell. so does the sea. the moon rises, falls
and eats itself in less than 30 days.
every night eats an entire day without feeling guilt.

we flow in the blue-wash of dusk
and dive straight towards the unedited surge of tides.

fingers trace and tease stories
and breathe a new cosmology,
where words and body language collide into conspiracy.

passion!
you teach yes and no
and the graceful rough edges of pumice stones
grinding, pulverizing and
annihilating
seeds
into nourishment
for the belly
eating the belly

passion!
bringer of inconvenient truths from deep waters
and the innocent taste of salt upon tongue.
as if sweat could be that simple.

passion!
you who are terrify and strip
vulnerability and willing
expose and explosion
and
the convulsions of creatures denied at birth,
thrown unconsciously
and unselfconsciously
upon the gritty sand
while foam and wave wash over them.

there is no duality within the sea.
admit it:
you are horny for the ocean's violent birth, death and rebirth
reenacted through your tears.
you have an addiction for Aphrodite's violent thighs born from testicle foam
born from ancient stories
of men and civilizations and sacrificial gods rising and falling
again and again
and again.

oh pilgrim of passion!
remember this when you feel afraid:
regeneration will never kill what is eternal.
you cannot hold onto what is essential.
water is going to slip through your fingers.
and the waves naturally lead you where you are meant to be.
you are never lost --even among the edges where lighthouses do not shine.

passion does not wear spectacles.
nor does she
send out a formal invitation with perfectly engraved letters.
because of this
i trust her.

passion inhales
breasts and thighs
cunts and clitoris'
dicks
balls
asses
tits
pinkies
toes and nipples

i like her unpredictable navigation
and the way she penetrates secret realms
between hurling waves and resting sand
where debris and starfish try to hide.

she fucks seven days into a week
through the end and the beginning
she ask for nothing in return
except recognition of this:

every single night eats an entire day without feeling guilt.
day and stars are born because of this.