An Infant of the Occasion

You want to know
about the passages of time,
as if time has wings
and wings have passages.

And I wonder
if you have inherited your name
from conquerors or tradespeople
and what is left
of their congresses in your blood.

When we fuck
our juices run together
down the drains of the centuries
and blossom in bright syringes
in microwaves and fridgedairs.

It is the oldest story
in the book
and I am glad
to have repeated it.
No amount of repetition
will make it less true.

I am thankful
that I have no knowledge
of the things
of which I speak,
since they seep out of me
in jerks
when I am excited.

We pass on nothing of ourselves
but desire,
and from desire
flowers a whole universe.

The timepiece of time
is my face
which keeps beautifully the hours.

I invite your cock
to enter my face
because it winds me up.

I do not believe
that sex is an ideology,
but it is a currency.

A trader
in life and death.
A conqueror.

A secret messenger
across the public hours
between the register of births
and the other thing.

It's not that I'm afraid
to say the word,
I've said it
too many times already.
It has become banal.

The juices in our groins
crave another journey,
one that we cannot take,
but can send
a little morsel
of ourselves on.

And we say, Godspeed,
- take thy fair hour -
go, child,
and break the time barrier.

And in our dreams
we hear a loud crashing
of our great grandmother's best china
and know
that the child has got through.

And on waking we are clear
that no more can be asked for.
And no more given.
And we are not smiling.

One does not come to accept these things.