Intermarcity

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She is sitting and glowing in her entirety. All, all, all. With her bright green and blue eyes she will shamelessly tenderly pass through the stiff notes of the umbilical and will be ashamed. Shameless and tender as well. So, it seems like happened. Or just in the wind a spiderweave tattooed the branches connected. A trap with a naked moan. Still somewhere the belly is soft and white. Eat, eat. There will be much more. Press it, press it. Wet on the wet still slides gently. You’ll stop, and continue. The hand of your heart folded, you will dive, and behind the ears, the net, like on the hips, in weaving. Binding everything. Weaving and braiding the plait with ribbons of quiet joy. And emerges easily and ruffles, and touches without cunning. The crown trembles, sparkles, sways and flies white petals on a full flowering river and you fall into a green tattered swamp. You stumble in the grass ant and lie stretched out like before the war. Everyone in the light and so are you. Everyone slows down, slow down the minutes and so are you. Then he left everything, and went. The petals fly, weave, bind. Your smile on the bridge means that you can follow him. If you write now, then you will draw this later. Missed the beat of the heart, touching the knees – it means …

Touching, breathing, fluttering small, feeling hot outside. Failure. Hand in hair with the same movement with voluptuousness. The flow of something yet unknown in the body comes upon you. The drive is strictly straight. You don’t want to turn. A park. You see the deep darkness in the dark blue irises. Strong. It drags a loose desire by the ground. The thread-vessel draws the vulnerable sweetness to the depth of the park. Passing by. Even passing by the punished one in an orange tie, who sits in the bushes, subject to an unknown fate, watching the two with a movement-pulse in exhalation. Not looking, but finding. There, in a circle of trees and a bear in the crown. The white hand took the trunk and took more inside. Needles-points are waving and waving. The xenon flashed through the trees in a strange rush. And the night bird began singing, signing, signing with a moan in a woman giving tenderness, with a precious scattering of sonorous exhalations, a smooth coolness of her knees, a puff of a short laugh. With the joy of the giver, from something was taken with happiness. And they look in the slow, small rushing bustle of a night park.

.....

They look, without blinking, from the dark vault and drowning a non-accidental unaccountable oblivion, lack or absence.

The rope of reason slides on the pier of balance. It slips, slides and flies into a black hole..

.....