SEX AND CEREAL

I got high on an empty stomach and I’m pouring mounts of honey hoops into my mouth, most missing and tripping down my chest. I pick the hoops from between my breasts and dust off the crumbs. I can do this now, because this bed only holds me and this sedentary solitude is not unwelcome; preferable, even. Today I am thinking about sex. Whether I am having it or not; it is good or bad; it is me or another - it fucks me senseless. Turns the belly of the earth inside out and me with it. The seed of human existence plants the seed for human suffering and sex is the venom in which we drink and we drink and we drink and we drink and why not? It tastes so fucking good. Let’s pretend it doesn’t burn out throats and scalds our stomachs when not digested entirely right. Let’s us pretend it always feels good and impure in all the right ways and dirty but for a mere moment. Let’s forget our father’s flailing fidelity and fuck until we can no longer hear our mothers’ cry. 

But let’s imagine, for a moment, that sex ceased to exist. We, too, would succumb to the same inexistence, the black chasm of nothingness. And after all, that doesn’t sound entirely bad.