Eros, be praised

As I reach toward him
The tentacles of time breathe
Then stop.
Nodes of thought harden, then explode, 
And the points in space that form our pathways to passion, to each other, crackle and illuminate in the crepuscular glow.
They form a barrier between us, between this world and the next
Bulging, a base bubble within which to brew our joy;
To delve into the dripping vat of delicious delight, dip hungrily, descend deeper than I had anticipated
Encountering only slight resistance on the way down to the gutter spewed full of glitter and stars.

Shadows shift, and now only a vague pretence of privacy remains,
A hazy film of floating free air, heated by desire
It sits astride our melding forms, and the people who might pry are reduced to pillars of sand.
Beyond there are only mirages. This world is ours.
The stuff of human presence reduced to two souls, yet our bodies — entwined — weigh more than lead.
Your hand explores tracts of superheated human, but finds a melted mass; a treacle of emotion and enveloping senses. And I’m confused as to whether they belong to you, me or the other me who never was
Who coagulated among the books, films and hired expectations of my unripe personas.
This unreality, this moment of fancy, fantasy fleeting has more depth, more weight than my wilting will.
These very words break reason. Why analyse that which seems more miracle, sees nothing, feels all?
But it is a storm, a tumult of passion and compassion. A chance to think, in this pocket of still time, about the oblivion that houses an ironic all. Self love. 
Now is the time to dispatch the loathing and release the right to clear away the guilt and doubt. There is a worth in me, thanks to us. It is ours not to share. 
Let’s leave this planet. Let it float away down the river that has meandered for an eternity, carrying countless souls;
Delivering their stories in shoals to be deposited on the banks of better days.
We can ride the sails of this never-ending windmill; jump off as it turns full circle. Watch the others continue on, drunk yet dependable, dissolving ambition and wit in a nauseous, giddy churn until fear besmirches joy.
The truth is, we are not special. But I won’t believe it. Can’t. Not here. Not now. I am criminal in my desire for us to be different. To be the story that breaks the bank of human tragedy
And happiness.
We are the world.
 
As we breathe life into each other’s bodies amid the mists of yesterday, today and tomorrow, let every inch of our souls sing:
This is the world we have newly created. And for all the mistakes and sins that exist in the old one, we bear the right to overwrite all that is displeasing.
We are the new rule-makers.
We are the new gods.
What happens here tonight in this non-space is us. And we are it. This universe. This desire. This feeling which is greater than us, them, all else.
Today the world has been upgraded. And all of humanity, in our selfish gaze, will be ours to mollycoddle and make whole in our image.
Our being together is the universe’s only great wonder.
Be amazed.
Be joyful.
And let peace wash over all others, guide the hands of future generations to make fast our memory for all eternity.
We are the first and the last.

Praise us — 
And to hell with the rest.

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