Slipping Twenties Into G-Strings

It’s done. Catastrophic pirouettes. All in with you, baby. Penny and pound. Let’s fuck every night. I’ll hold you every night. Hold and cave you. Freak the doctors out. Wax them poetic. Threaten their profession. Render them helpless and strangling on their own objectivity. Yes, let your sick naked body lie between my legs. Rest on my chest. Something Kildare’s and Clara Barton’s don’t know about. Sons of bitches. You know none of us know what the fuck we are doing. I hold her in front of priests from the grand inquisition. The surgical bishops. The emergency room popes.

You,

And you,

And you,

Are all one and the same.

Impending death makes for good loving. Back to back grief. I’ll stop them, baby. Your body’s had it. I’ll stop the fools gambit. Let’s bury hope, you and I. Go out on our own terms. Rejigger prayers until they honor women. Heartbeat thresholds before you die. Tell the Catholic nurse to fuck off. “Pray for a miracle” she says. “Hospice is evil. They will kill her” Be Kurt Russell. Throw the molotov cocktail. Scream, “Yeah? Well fuck you too”

We know it. We did come together. You were music. I was physics. Spielberg moons. Howling white wolves in the night. Falling stars reminding us that death is not far away. We don’t know what the fuck to say, Let’s raise and call. We lived as best as we could these five months. Fucking right up to the end when you couldn’t do it anymore. You sucked my cock like a banshee wanting it all for as long as you could. Savory and sweet. Mouthfeeling a smooth foreskin and veined erection. Wanting it all. You wanted to suck my cock that Saturday night. But you were done. I knew it. Knew there wasn’t much time left.

We’re playing craps with time. Let’s get your finality in order. No one’s scared as I but I don’t feel scared. Let’s give you a good death. Find a good day to die. The rational man says, “She had everything but the man. Then you showed up” Mad. Mad. Fucking mad. Quantum insanity. Providence tidal-waving me. I’ll go atomic being unable to explain it away.

Priests, doctors, psychologists, statisticians. White coats and white collars say no. Probabilities, random chances, delusions, degrees of error. If scientists and psychologists had their way, there would be no such thing as love. Fuck off. All of you. Have some imagination. You’ve made cheese addictive. Hugs into vessels of oxytocin transmission. Joy in seeing someone into an endorphin rush. You’ve taken away the fuck and funk of body making us believe that there is something better than dirt itself.

Well, fuck off, inquisitors. I’ll take my pussy rare. Find the primacy of love as she dies. Slip twenties into g-strings. Increase the morphine drip of a dying lover. Say wrong things at right times. Blasting off. Hot hard cocks, suckling stiffened nipples on dolloped breasts and tonguing rose’ flushed clits. Hair I can run my fingers through. Perversions that make me feel good, friends that smoke, cocktails at Musso and naked swims in the Smith River.

I know you won’t like that.