I once heard the voice of love say she was my pain. Not that she was inside my anguish but that she was my anguish itself. Looking up at the giant flower moon high in the cold night sky, I feel my sadness swell in my chest. It is a kind of tender ache which accompanies awe, which tugs at the sleeves of wonder and amazement that we are at the mercy of so many invisible, sinister forces out of our control.
You cannot choose with what you will become obsessed. Something other than you sets you off, something beautiful, menacing, much bigger than you could ever hope to overcome, with claws and nails and teeth. Take your hands and touch me everywhere and know that I am here with you. My body is the deepest sea of a love so crushing you have no chance of surviving it. Death will come for you and you alone in an intimate moment of climactic separation. Death is the ultimate intimacy, complete and utter solitude and oneness with the universe which spins and pulses indifferent and eternal.
This love you seek is lethal and still you seek it. Beg for it. Seethe for it. Sin for it. Grieve for it. A wise poet once said that when we mourn we mourn ourselves. It is not the dead that choke up in our throats but our own lives in the shadow of their absence. And here I thought I knew it all about loss. But it could be that everything I pinned my life against was always crumbling down, falling away, full of rot and decay. Could it be that the tears I shed were a kind of reflecting pool. I hate to think we are so selfish as we are but I don’t think we see it. Or if we do we think it is somehow justified.
Love like a sedative, love like a junkie, love like a death you want only to fall naked in front of just to be free of the chains of a life you are ashamed to have constructed and know not how to dismantle on your own. Sex as death, orgasm as death, and a life afterwards fucked up with desperation, confusion, emptiness. Drooling, crying, hating yourself.
Some people never get it do they. They think they can side step, they think they can play. But the devil is in the details they say. You think I am sweet but I am never satisfied. I always want more. More feeling, more worship, more thoughts, more creation, more revelations, more pain, more dare, more stimulation. Death is never satisfied. It wants it all and it takes it all, too. Death and I are insatiable.
Is this why you come to me and ask me to break you all the way down. Is this why your whole body trembles when I come too close. Is this why you need it.