Stunt Kite.

The reality of the word ‘tree’

With its rough bark

Its sticky sap

Its cool shade

And its dripping leaves

The reality of the word ‘demon’

With its provocation

And its experience

With its hair and horns

And animal heat

The reality of the word ‘slippery’

With its metasexual connotations

Its texture

Its surface

Its literary context

Its throb and pulse

Its propensity to make you fall

Into imagined states of wetness

Amongst the pure soft dew of the morning

And the sweet sticky juice

Of freshly budding petals

The reality of the word ‘innocence’

With its distant promise

With its milk and honey

With its nymphs and fauns

Whose gossamer tongues

Drink from crystal pools

Of intricate bliss

The reality of the word ‘lips’

From betwixt which slip 
Succulent

Perfumed waves

On warm opal rays of light

Which float and dazzle

Like white clouds

in the hot sunshine of constant invocation

diving like a Chinese stunt kite

in mad pursuit of true relief

from the bondage of guilt and self

in the healing draught

of a rip red kiss.

April 2012 – Moscow.

pic - avec l'amour pour vous - from my travels with a shit camera series, by martin cooke.