the reflex

Ah, can't sleep. Want your big f*****g hands all over me. I want you to touch me exactly where you know it's needed at any given moment, like it's intuitive, because it is. Like how I do yoga when I'm high, all the positions come naturally and into consciousness. I don't have to think, my body does it for me. Like I'm in another dimension. I heard from this crazy guy I canvassed that maybe we didn't actually go to the moon or something because the earth's outer atmosphere is so dense you'd need like a certain amt of steel to like protect humans from being penetrated by it. Well it's prolly conspiracy but I want that kind of force/power in how I f**k.
So your hands - they contain great motion and energy. They appear as revelation - not a belief about reality but reality itself. There are so many ways to limit our reality; your hands only enhance it. My reality in mental terms dissolves; touch is allowed its freedom, and some artificial need to vindicate being ends. There is some integrity that exists beyond the possibility of annihilation, a state of grace. Feels like some of it is contained in your hands. I wonder if it is artificial. I can feel my fallibility, it's like fabric. And everyday I do a 3 minute headstand like it's a condition of my existence.

Reviews

[Charles]

Rough and raw, a crazy fun combination.

[Pax Analog]

Powerful. To solicit from a primary instrumentality of the other a catalyst for intimate psychonautic protection and lift-off.

This prose-poem promotes healing hands in a more rigorous psychosexual context, tilting toward a permanent altered state.

Since socialized reality is entirely a construct, every one of our personal vital intimate acts can certainly be experienced radically anew, with great profundity.

Strong work that is itself a vital catalyst for new reality-formations.