I wanted the type of sex
That could roll off the tongue.
One of ease, one not necessarily legible,
But intuitive, one that tastes good.
Largely, one beyond an initiatory
Understanding of time. One which
Could move fluidly, could echo the form
Of its own making. A wet type of sex, sure, but
Wet as in a demarcation of linearity,
A fluidity concave over its own innards,
An unspinning of guts which mark blood
As a more concrete elongation than
Any type of clock. Sliding. Please
Understand: A sex which strays languid, which
Itself could disorient based on a confluence
Of liquid desire. What happens
In a black hole? The only thing we know for sure
Is that it’s shape — torus-like and
Folded in on itself — bellies inward
To the extent that time becomes foggy. Time
Becomes convoluted in it, occurring external
To extant knowledge of linearity, forward motion, etc...
Space-time so slippery, the image of
Going towards it like Claire Denis
Imagines. Claustrophobic in a brutalist
Kind of box, where sex is only allowed
Two ways: the first, external to the self.
Semen extracted in sleep and planted
Into a non-consenting womb. The
Second: masturbation in order to secrete enough liquid
To power the ship’s vegetable garden. Self-
Sufficiency, sex as continuation, as pleasure
Disparate from itself, but always moving
Towards something, towards a socially-driven need
For linearity. A linearity created by train travel,
Another way to move through space. In November
Of 1883, Congress agreed to standardize time
Enabling train companies
And the men who ran them
To increase their wealth, exponentially. In this way,
Being On It — riding time, so to speak —
Became legally aligned with manufacture
And the constant circulation of goods. Time
Is money, they agreed, so to make more of it,
To increase their money flow, time itself
Became the constant, no longer
Understood in relation to the sun.
No wonder Denis films all scenes on Earth
Inside or on top of a moving train.
A perpendicular opposition to the space mission,
One which modulates and floats
Towards a black hole, a type of time
Disconnected, it’s own regurgitation.
Juliette Binoche wraps herself
Around a red leather sex machine,
Groaning wildly, stretching
Herself on it. Towards internal combustion
Intertwines her hands with rope
& Makes herself sweat. Masturbation
As fertilization, expulsion of liquids
Which drip so sweetly. If trains
Standardize time, perhaps Outer Space
Distorts it. Sex in a box inching towards a black hole
Stretching from Earth towards a more jagged
More fuzzy rendering
Of what time could be. Blurred desire enacted
In the solitude of her sex
Mimicking mine as I watch her
The apartness which slides wetly.
Her overwhelming, witch-like pleasure
It’s hazy background & her closed
Eyes insist on a forgetfulness of the
Room she’s in, of the amount of time
It takes to make herself cum.
Time stops & I fall asleep.
All I’m doing is trying to move
Towards a disorientation dissected
From straight lines, one not too
Specific, but disjointed, one which
Finds its pleasure by working
Against it.