EIGHTH HOOKER POEM (soulsex)

here is my work, a back door into humanity a secret passage to a walk-in library of congress, how many positions can I love you in let me count the ways the words the long rows of kamasutrapedias spiralling out of my head as I lower it around yours and collect evidence of body parts warming each other, dances on your skin that create corresponding dances in your bloodstream the necromancy of mindful affection the craftmanship of really meaning it, like a master’s degree in harnessing your inner analgesics like ballet without the aching feet, here is a tantric massage like a back door into your forgotten sorrows a recipe for spiritual success, first we take your fantasies those hidden from embarrassing othereyes, then we go deeper into the fantasies you’ve hidden from yourself and then finally we find that space where your wants are too you to take form just blood flowing endlessly facelessly shapelessly through arteries made of what, and here I make your cake here I take your alls and whip them up into spirals of pleasure, my big trick my grand finale is the tears, the laughter, the spasm, the whateverthefuck comes out with the sperm this little white blotch of soul nutrition so exponentially potent when mixed with everything else, ah the body the dish that feeds itself by expelling its own memories, this is a little miracle when I see the juices flowing from your everywhere and I see how it all comes together in grateful eyes shining with the light of some still-glowing heart inside you that I must have somehow managed to weld back together, well fuck I guess I’m some kind of accidental wizard

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