“the human sexual experience…”

prompt writing: “the human sexual experience…”

Oh the poet. I’ve always wanted to fuck a poet. But. I’ve never wanted to fuck a poet that didn’t want to fuck me. Which I imagine is a lot of them, a lot of those poets. The ones who write in series of lists and lines of nonsense I can’t quite understand. Sometimes I cover my head with the quilt when I read them. Eeeeesssssh.

I’ve always wanted to fuck the poet and I’ve always wanted to be that poet that people have wanted to fuck.

Both. And.

Never either/ or. I’ve wanted to be that poet, the kind who knows words even a little better than they know themselves. The kind of poet who twists and turns words, rebirths them into creatures they were too afraid or to shy to be before. I’ve wanted to be and to fuck that poet.

Like Kathleen Hanna and those killer bikinis, who didn’t know if they wanted to be that rebel girl in the neighborhood or fuck her or be her best friend yeah, I’ve always been between. Between the desire to be and do, to fill and be filled, to hold and to be the one holding. Fucked and fucking. I’ve always wanted this and that, hard and soft, slow and fast all at the same time. I’ve wanted to be inside the outside of the shells of someone elses skin. I’ve wanted to be the outside of the inside of a new skin. I’ve never been very good at telling someone else that though.

I’ve spent the day looking at a picture and reading articles about a weasel that decided to hop on the back of a woodpecker.

Take flight.

Sometimes I’ve wanted to take a ride on odd vehicles, go so high high high up that I’m no longer just a weasel but maybe the new shape that a weasel-woodpecker makes when they are holding on to each other.

I’ve always wanted to fuck the poet but sometimes a poet only wants to fuck themselves. Sometimes a poet doesn’t know that the words they turned inside out don’t actually render themselves new but old. Or a rhyme or unrhymed or new shape. Sometimes words can’t take on the shape we want them to and poets can’t be the bodies we want them to be and poems just can’t.

Not for us. At least they aren’t always, are they?