No ground to hold us captive or voice to call our existence sin

got women with chest unleashed dancing free in the rain

got men soaking very conscious of their stiffening meat and there’s trees and buzzing things zipping by dodging the thickness of the air and the blurred hurriedness of bothered hands

the women are consumed with each other and obsessed with the stickiness of the skin beneath their breast and the men have found a place for their hands less bothered now full and fondling sitting in the mud that has become their throne

here the inspiration to keep going does not come from a fuck it attitude or a satisfaction to not die and not die today here inspiration comes from the body and its ability to become Adam and Eve when thrown in the leaves

here they eat the fruit and do not question the bounds of their free will they just let it be free and flowing from their fingertips and into each other mouths

they have all kissed each other and held one another under the night stars and no nothing of sorry only of spooning and how to make moonshine out of spring water, they are each other’s muses these 6 women and 4 men all aged 20 something and they have already become themselves whole and continuing and carnival

they meet every evening at dusk around a fire that does not speak to them, or maybe it did sometime the other night but the music they made with their thighs and stomping feet caused a raucous that brought hail from the sky and then who needs to know what the fire said anyway? here the fire is just a means to keep warm not a metaphor for desire or something charred yet to come, these people are brown fro’d and throbbing and all they need

ones bent over a tree stump open and another is stuffed in pleasure and singing while dinner is made by two of the men something that’s sizzling pork then they hear a shout

“Hey!”

All ten turn in unison the fire is now standing with a sword in hand stabs and cracks the ground, it splits and all 10 tumble through the open earth to somewhere and the fire says “mmmmph you hear me now?!”

 

 

And what a betrayal

 

when the body grows                          hard

or                     moist

against

your will

pressing/dampening

your jeans                                           at the sight of another

Adam/Eve

standing there like                                                                   you stand

                        brown like you brown

 

the most contemptuous arousal.

 

Matthew L. Thompson is a stream of color and breathing, still, contradiction from Cleveland, Ohio, and this Fall he will be a MFA candidate in Poetry at The New School. His blog is Unlearning Monday, and he wants his writing to fight, cry, moan, grieve, listen, shout and be as varied and full as he is in the flesh. Matthew wants the reader to feel hugged and humped, even. He currently lives in Milwaukee, WI and is getting his life. Join him on Twitter and Instagram @mlew_33. Selected by Kamden Hilliard.

Image copyright Tobias Toft via Flickr Creative Commons.