A tall woman on Lewisham Way today

I sometimes wonder if women want to fuck the way i do when i see them sometimes. Well, sometimes... not all the time, but everyday for sure. Not any one of them. Those whose walking is purposeful. Ok hold on, before i get into any of that, let me just say that i don't fuck them as much as see them breath hard. not too hard of course. it doesn't really work out that way in bed. nor would i want it to. in fact, that's the whole point. this woman doesn't give a shit, per se; she would if she didn't see you the way you saw her, in principle at least. she, they, with their closed mouths and open jaws, shutting eyes, shifting thighs, heavy heads, strong arms, and delected loss of the little self-control they can muster, pitifully free, their inability to be brought down by realism and frank social captivity so heavy a burden fallen to the very depths of hell at the prospective glimmer of arousal. these women that make me feel so jealous, so free, so lucid, so morbid, so curious and so young, so odd and so quiet, so and so behind this proud in-my-place.

I see them sometimes. so many different ones, yet all the same in one or two ways. they command conversation. they've probably never had an exchange proper. they are alone all the time because it is impossible for them to stop asking questions in the affirmative. answers for them are questions and contemplations built atop each other. joy is unsought because it is always instantly available, by virtue of their style's embeddedness with the future that urges the present. they walk ahead without being leaders. well actually that sounds really retarded. forget i said that. actually, they are so much more decadent than that. they really don't need you. but oh how they do miss you. without you they are simply too perfect. what a waste.

They smoke (in principle), they talk, they touch, they touch, they touch. you can make love to them anywhere. they are certainly always horny. well actually that's not true. sometimes what happens is that you get real horny, sometimes on their mischievous account, though to be fair, they love you, and they turn around once there's no turning back, and they kiss you, gently place their soft hands on your chest, bringing the left up to your jaw, in your thick hair, kneeling up around you as you sit more or less alone in the dark corner of the bar, you can smell their unwashed breasts under the tight damp clothes, their other hand snapping open your belt and slipping under your torn underwear, somehow maneuvering you and around here and there at a pace that can only indicate to you both that, in good time, you will come.

They tend to be tall. they tend to be white, well, i mean what does it matter anyway. in the land of the free there are no prejudices. tell it to me who faces the free and shines a light so bright as to blind all those likely to save me. tell it to me. bah! this isn't about me anyway.

They are kids who know so much. who can explain so much. who have so many questions. who correct you on every account your ambition fails your heart and who are light-up every time your heart speaks through your mind. they use your ideas against you and dissect your open wounds, they teach you about everything you can never understand, they fight the revolution in your body and mend the endless battlefields of sorrow with simple hugs. they are warm. they are immense. when your eyes fall to the ground, they take your corpse to the heavens and give you flesh. they are fire and you burn. you skin boils, your muscles cook, your bones sweat, and your temperature rises. you feel again, you are saved, you have become, and you are invincible. their are your life, if only they could grasp it as they do you.

you see it in them for you and for all. they are the whore of the revolution. they are the power of will, they are the crutch of feeble men. they are the raison d'etat, they are fucked over, and you resent that. you walk away, you don't walk away. no actually that's not true. they are much more than that. you cannot understand them. you cannot know them. they don't even know them, so how could you? (knowing others who cannot know themselves is the domain of women. that is their monopoly. i don't mean so much that they know others, they just happen to be right, on no enlightened account. a fluke if you will. they don't even know when it kicks in or when it is in effect. unexploitable, so useless to dwell on here)

They are irreproachable. they are uncanny. they are ephemeral. they are all those things that words you don't know denote. they have lives but they do not have purposes. they understand, but the understandable always grows faster than does understanding. they are lost but don't care enough to have direction exist beyond the limits of their vision.

In the end, you don't want them for you, you just want to make sure, to have the continuous proof, that they permanently exist.