Living in Aqua

In a strange melody, sparks of water engulf me as if a catch on a net.
The seagulls enchant me with their soft melodies; sparks of fluids everywhere, lights circling the essential reason of nature, as if bringing together the last sunrise or the last sunset.
When water’s the issue, the term is incomplete and the stakes are high.
Building rocks, listening noises, hearing distant sounds and being there without a sense of being.
A couple fucks and fluids start to run out, more water being pumped up, more excrements, being released, the muscles serve as a lunar vehicle, no gravity to depend on.
The woman whispers softly: Just give me something to use, give me a sound or an act and I’ll give you the horizon full of oranges.

The man replies by stating that he can see, but can’t be seen.
Leaves dropping through a world of sperm, seeds on the ground, that still walk among.
Nature does its course, while the man searches through a pile of papers to feed him.
Woman sees him devouring paper, consuming it, depending upon it.
Papers on his mouth, cigars on his ears, as the ultimate conspiracy reigns through invisible things.
Where’s the towel?!!!!
Where’s cleansing?!!!
Where’s psychotherapy?!!!!
Aqua vitae, being part upon part, two plus one; as she hums the temperature rises, her body temperature falls.
Station upon station, cigarette after cigarette burned, the paper’s there, less water, more fluids.
Gazing fire, depending on water, hands on his neck, shoulders rubbed against his face; an eternal act, forbidden fruit for her to eat.
Ich sehe dich in mir, du hast nicht das getan: replies the woman to the man.
Flags are released throughout a sample pattern, one emerges and the rock collides with the sun, leaving only fragments of a lost rock, that is now divided in small ones, that are consumed upon water.
Fais ça. je veut te toucher, t’embrasser; while touching your hair, I want to rip it apart, to scratch your eyes and hears, to cut your tongue in two, to release fluids, to achieve orgasm, this is spoken while the man stares casually at a lost pattern, a simple ashtray on the floor, smoke’s in the room, the scent is intoxicating, the colours beginning to fade to a simple grey, where an area is fulfilled, where the storm’s brews, screaming tearful with joy.

A napkin on her mouth, a fork on his hand, a spoon near a needle that flies and flies, leaving them into oblivion, time’s framed on a singular moment, flashes began to appear where there weren’t none and throughout the landscape, forms emerge signalling changes and habits.
Time zone stops, Interzone begins its appearance radiant as a sunlight, viele spraeche immer, viele leute in unsere kopf: sagt der mann.
Nature’s doing its course on forest, where the milky way appears inside trees, inside ourselves, throughout the universe, where one can find a true meaning of form and formless, based upon the single act of sex, as the woman speaks discretely on man’s ears.
Sounds, repeated sounds...

nnnnnnnnnn...

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...
Caressing a carpet, embracing the furniture, departing while staying still.
Senses are alert to the touch, the area is no longer unique, but a mixture of little big areas, where one can see grey, white and black.
Sill standing face upon cheek, thighs upon legs, little insects contemplate their banquet, while small holes are being smaller every time.
In a crowded room, in a cinema, in a theatre, the rage and anger continues its spiral course, descending, ascending, rounded and circled the human beast ravages the tiny insects, while the curtains are being closed another time.
A sense of dejá vu is seen through the little holes, that passes light, air, shadow and scent.