I’ve learned, sadly, that people begin expecting this poem’s ending to be literal. It isn’t, it is just a metaphor for even kinkier sex.

After or during all the staring, there will be sex. And that sex will have hunger in it, and sometimes it will feel as the only thing happening in the world, and definitely for a bit there will be nothing but now.

And it will also have kink.

I think that as art imitates life, so does porn replicate sex. Pornographers learn from humans, not humans from pornographers. I know this because looking back at when people were drawing dicks on cave walls I saw there is nothing new on Pornhub today which wasn’t some “secret sexual initiation” (kink) at some point in time.

Why do I answer with the mind to a poem about the soul?

Because I have this need to repeat, evermore, that the “soul” is way kinkier than the brain, and that all good, intimate, sex is weird for anyone else other than the ones having it.

Who am I? Random Joe of the Internets :) But … just think about it.

I write so you feel like you’ve just had an idea. It’s a nice feeling.

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