What need have i for metaphor, or allegory?… To write of life?  To write of
fucking?… To grasp, even at best, only a layman’s understanding of the
reductional dance of atoms in empty space?

Is not beauty (as they say) only a reflection in the eye of the beholder?
Is it not my ego…,
as my wife lays half-turning over to her side working her ass back at me
while the slow curious creases of the bedding quicken by the deliberate
(though sadly, admittedly clumsy) thrusting of our middle-aged bodies…,
while the night,
sitting there like a frog to its self, whispers to us,
through each-others eyes…,
the secrets of our youth?

What use to me are such elaborate entangling of words…., such extravagant
structuring,
while basking in nuclear radiance thinking about Fucking?

Does it make for a truer art?
For a finer beauty?
A more evolved beyond barbaric laughter?… Or is it nothing more than
making oneself -, in the end, sound something more  than just bestial?

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