Our arguing about art has always been sexy. You are even kind to
the blithering idiocy of people who ignore books and Buddha. I always admired
your List for Love Making: cellos, Chinese food and chocolate. It stinks of
desire and deviancy. It was eye contact that did me in. Not the promise of
feathers, five album long foreplay or the study of god's gluttony. I never
complain, insomnia is my friend, lunacy my guide. I take long sighs and I pause
often to soak in all the snogging we did inside the manipulation of your
mischief. Your movie would be called "nudity", my play
"obscurity". I'm writing down your Omni sexuality towards earth since
I will never see again. I can only be distracted by pop culture and strange
rumors of paradise. I can be completely floored by your screaming solipsism.
Suburbia contains us, like we are victims of some underachieving voodoo. It
can't be your warm skin that spells weirdness. I will come back to you. Women
are not Toys and I meditate against nudity.