April 27, 2012
It is always 3 a.m.
It is always 3 a.m., it seems, when we come together, two fuckfreaks in the dark. The furnace growls, the spider crouches, long-legged and lethal, the junkies sob their stories to the wind. Sharks circle and rain lashes and night thoughts hiss and whisper. Chipped red nails and blue balls, fingers pressing, fists pumping. It's easy to fall. And so we claw and grasp and scratch and fuck and fuck it and maybe it's all just snakes spitting in the darkness, choking it down, coughing it up, consuming it whole. We can dance, you and I, this fuck-metaphor of dance, and it's true, there is something graceful in the coming together of flesh, but grotesque, too. This sweating, this grunting, this moaning, this fucking fucking fucking, to heave and shudder together into that momentary epiphany of blood and spit and cum. And after, in the pale glow of streetlights and cell phones and burning cigarette ends, it is always 3 a.m., and I am empty.