drunken_sex werewolf earlier in the day, we passed by the basilica, stood for a moment opposite the engineering of light on marble, the approximation of god. we returned to our cramped hovel, like so many others who must've lived in the shadow of this church, its image in our minds crowding us, bigger than our real lives. there is always wine. sobriety is the savage plains of our ancestors, it is drunkedness which awaits at the top of the lilting stones and light we concentrated on so helplessly. when the drink is out of the bottle, but in your head, you forget the inevitable common names, you lose sight of what you're doing, juggling cornerstones. i kissed her hand, then her underpants are straining warmth against my face like coffee grinds, then peaches, then almost light, a silver fish, slippery, baited, baited, you close your eyes, you dive away from light, to the exalted catacombs of the sea, to the fluidity which we crawled out of. i clench with whatever sense i still can, sight, hearing, smell, taste pull like alternating fingers. a statue of st. peter sinks past me, faster to the bottom than i can go, with my strange tension, my buoancy. relays of warmth like cones of light, the world bucks, i had it like a god on my tongue for a moment, but it bucks. utterly entranced and, when i look up again, the sea is on fire, her face is a basilica falling or opening to become this phoenix sky. I was at the bottom of a boiling sea, heated by stirring, by the friction of ideas, untill the very return of my sight, the slight aching of my head, the recognition i have a head, the return of my common words, is relief as cooling and possessed as marble, as crystal sunlight. Her faces seems etched in stone, she seems to mumble arcane latin. I am back, but I will never know what really happened. 030725 what's it to you? who go blather from