Miles sitting on the black fire escape in a shock of rumination, memories crashing into him.
The big ass that spawned the world, a woman so gigantic she's organic order by mass alone...
That quaint object of man's desire, now the boobs, now the cheeks, always something or some part of her body. A desire that is always there, switched on like a light bulb keeping guard. A desire to make her, to do her, just to get into her. A desire like there is nothing else to want or need. A desire that can switch off for only a slight minute, forget itself only in the brief headiness of satisfaction. More sex, more and more of it at all times is what the world needs, more evening out and balancing of the desires, because after sex there's respite and rest and calmness and considered quiet and ease. And the more we see the signs of sex in the opposite sex, the more we're not only thinking about it but actively engaged in it, tanking up on desire and cultivating it in the heart's hot house; gently pruning it with practice and splicing it with other experiences, with exotic or artificial variations. I'm not even talking about morals and corruption of innocence because if morals keep either us or society in check then the brain is meant to be corrupted and wasted ¯ it's the processing of the experience that counts, the great register of experience we're always continually expanding and editing and rewriting and bombasting with shards of ego, now with the reticence of time and adumbration, now with a hint of the past as we see a memory encased or envisioned in an eye or hand or a way of the waist, a resonance with these members known before and expressed anew in the delight of variation, and the desire to know and experience every sensation of them again and weld the prose of experience to the poetic object at hand...
The big ass that spawned the world, a woman so gigantic she's organic order by mass alone...
That quaint object of man's desire, now the boobs, now the cheeks, always something or some part of her body. A desire that is always there, switched on like a light bulb keeping guard. A desire to make her, to do her, just to get into her. A desire like there is nothing else to want or need. A desire that can switch off for only a slight minute, forget itself only in the brief headiness of satisfaction. More sex, more and more of it at all times is what the world needs, more evening out and balancing of the desires, because after sex there's respite and rest and calmness and considered quiet and ease. And the more we see the signs of sex in the opposite sex, the more we're not only thinking about it but actively engaged in it, tanking up on desire and cultivating it in the heart's hot house; gently pruning it with practice and splicing it with other experiences, with exotic or artificial variations. I'm not even talking about morals and corruption of innocence because if morals keep either us or society in check then the brain is meant to be corrupted and wasted ¯ it's the processing of the experience that counts, the great register of experience we're always continually expanding and editing and rewriting and bombasting with shards of ego, now with the reticence of time and adumbration, now with a hint of the past as we see a memory encased or envisioned in an eye or hand or a way of the waist, a resonance with these members known before and expressed anew in the delight of variation, and the desire to know and experience every sensation of them again and weld the prose of experience to the poetic object at hand...
