a little poetry
anarchy.
First rain since June, and we all say: "Fuck. Rain." Come on, say it with me: "Fuck. Rain." But let me ask you: Have you ever tried to fuck rain? If you thought queer sex was a mystery, if you thought religious sex was a mystery, if you thought *sex* was a mystery, if you thought masturbation until you shake all over for minutes or hours or days was a mystery, then give it a good try some time. Rain is slippery, intensely not-there, nothing but a falling wetness, no center, nothing to hold onto, but all the same extremely, passionately, wildly present, all around you, on all sides and inside, rain is consumate lover. Rain is the power of the erotic. Anarchy is a stirring in the fleshy parts, in the meat of the world, in thick clouds dense with humidity, among thunder and shot through with lightning. The power of anarchy is anarchy, and anarchy is a sudden storm, coming from nowhere and in a few seconds soaking the world to its core. And then gone.
