In mounting warmth 

we strip away the underwear of our identity. 

Blushing and giggling, 

we pull our genders to our ankles

and then, naked, 

we climb on.

The He and She of Us 

become a limitation to our pleasure, 

sloughs away in favour of a more erotic possibility: 

the limitlessly horny intimacy if we could become each other.


The bright distinctive clothings of ourselves torn off, 
discarded in a careless heap.


- from Disease of Language (IV. Art), Alan Moore

A Disease of Language

We are insensate molecules, assembled from the accidental code engraved upon our genes.

Mud that sat up.

Chemicals mingle in our sediment and in their interactions and combustions.
We suppose we feel,
supppose we love.


Clay looks on clay and understands that it is beautiful.

Through us, the cosmos gazes on itself, adores itself, breaks its own heart.

Through us, matter stares slack jawed at its own star-dusted countenance and knows, incredulously, that it knows.

And knows that it is universe.