Honeymoon in Berlin 1987

Spores dance like fireflies, motes of dust burn like magnesium in water, our lungs sweat, our limbs liquify. We shouldn’t touch but carom. When we do we adhere painfully. Then we must divorce like velcro. The skin tears/ me on her / her on me. I can’t keep my hands off her, if I’m not touching her ass, I’m mauling her breasts, I can’t control myself, I’m rubbing her legs, fingering the nape of her neck, tickling her earlobes. – You’re too much, she says, and I concur, but I can’t stop myself from grabbing her, embracing her, falling on her. We blister. Are plagued by welts. It goes on and on/never ending/ and if it does end/ it starts again. It is the same thing, the same damn thing over and over again and there is nothing I can do. I am trapped. I must go through the same journey, along the same path, go through the same rituals. Convolvulaceous fingers with tips like lead trespass upon velutinous flesh. These fingers slip between the cleft, a kiss is placed on the nipple, the belly button is rummaged. It’s the heat, it the swelting heat. You’re giving me a rash, she says. I munch on her pubic hair, lick the sweat from her under arm, gather up the dandruff from her shoulder and eat it like it is powdered sugar.  You are Snow White in the bedroom, I say. You are Rumpelstiltskin in the bedroom, she says. Vagina dentata! I shout. Memento mori! she shouts.

Róbert Hayes

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