What is the script for this for saying and doing and believing and tasting and touching the insides of her thighs my cock in her mouth her hands bound together above her and her tits bunched up and out and legs splayed the urge to push her further and her panties twisted up into my fist tugging not to hurt her exactly but for her to cum exactly and while i don’t quite understand the machine i’ve become i understand how having her like this pleases me as long as she is pleased in return

to be engaged, present. presently spoken for. in the present for this someone. someone’s presence. to be their present. a gift to you for all that you are. i believed that once, until i wished it all away. wishing blind, such a gift to behold. her voice, like an extreme show of force. a presence in of itself, self evaporating. self defeating. now who the fuck are you talking about? who the fuck do you think you are? something like that. ha ha, yeah, you were never even there. aint that some shit?

we dream in the high pitched whine of a gear wrenching itself free but finding no purchase. technicolor marvel and i thought this life was entirely sepia, with her mocking over tones and unclear designations. she huddles close to me before sleeping, bare back against a rock lest the scraping set us all at ease. it is this dis-ease that i hang by, this sure knowing i am broken and revel in my discontinuity.

i beg of you, leave this be. leave this. the levees, he said, the levees are high enough for another hurricane. she played with the mud and gravel, knowing better, already accustomed to the arrogance of pithy men. i sat in a lawn chair and admired his daughter, the hem of her skirt hitched up to her hip. these are the trappings, this is the mulch.

when i look into the horror of all that i am, the despair and meaninglessness, the vast and awesome horizon of barren trees stripped of bark and leaves and sap and of all life, right into a sun that scortches the eyes and cracks the ground for miles with deep and jagged grooves splitting the feet of children and tired men, i find myself feeling nothing, i find myself tired of feeling anything at all.

i love being alone, i’m either with someone who i enjoy being with or i am alone and all of sudden i started thinking to myself, i need to do something, i need to do something, one part of my mind was listening, the other part ws saying what the fuck is wrong with you, you’re coming off like a crack addict, and i started to panic that something was coming out from inside of me, and i said, who can i call, who can i call, and another part of me was watching that this was all very interesting, and i couldn’t find anyone to call, to find a way to be subdued and emotionally in control, but i freaked out over the phone to my sister and she lives in jersey and she said, just talk to me, i’m on my way, i’m on my way, honey, it’s just bigger than you.

there is something severely wrong with you and i: we speak in pairs and dream horrifying streaks of passions and rage. like the song, shiny fits of rage, and somewhere else, i want to see your face breaking. i want to break, every day, i am waiting for you to break me, the skin is so thick, it’s stifling, i’m drowning, i cannot move. slice it, peel it, whatever, crack me out of here.

and we walk into the night, she and i and he and them, and we talk of the world before us while a wino pisses along the curb and stumbles across a sewer grate. she hands him gummy bears and he tosses them up into the air and we all scramble with our mouths open. she says to me, while eying him, i’ve given up this thing for something else entirely and i pat her on the head while french poodles nip at his heels. they all dance obscenely but we get a riotous kick out of it while wet nurses jiggle their way into the start of another day.

i no longer dream, i weep.
she comes to me in the night, she stands rigid, afraid. she no longer knows how to look at me. sometimes.
she says, sometimes i breathe and i can almost smell you, the way you would when you came out of the shower, clean and freshly born and i’d want nothing but to feel that coolness, to feel clean and new in your arms.
and i interrupt her, but i’m not clean anymore, right? what’s your fucking point? i crush the pencil in my hand, rip out another another page.
no, she says, you are not clean. she touches my brow, you’re drowning and i cannot find you. she kisses my temple, looks me in the eye. i will not.

you dirty fucker, why don’t you get to it, what are you fucking waiting for?
and i told him the time had to be right, the money wasn’t there yet, the teller wasn’t ready yet, there were too many people looking, waiting, i tell him anything to get him to calm down, to keep him from ripping his hair out, from ripping the seams off the leather seats.
but the truth was we were waiting a really long time for her and still, nothing. she must’ve known with her lunatic brother on board that this was going to happen sooner or later, and sooner was better before he lost his shit.
i was just losing my nerve.