Pamela Coleman Smith, from the Smith-Waite Tarot

Waking Up Horny and Eating Cactus

I don’t often hear string quartets in late July when I watch the mango sun sink into its lover’s green chest but if I strain, I can taste the threads and juice from its flesh and I can imagine that I will whisper this to someone later while I lovingly pour red wax over their head.

Regarding the Hermit card (IX) I pretend to light my poorly rolled cigarette in his lantern and muse over the absurdity that healing lies in cancerous holes in my constitution. And so I sit with him and we ruminate over the meteorite above our shared history on yellowed paper.

Consider childbirth and how it joins hands between creation and desecration; how an unthinking, hungry orb, made of the same stuff as you and I, rips through the flared fortress settled between the pair of thighs, and how earlier that year they were parted with the same roughness by the Hermit, not friend or foe, but presence, and with all the joy in the world from the two.

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