And in this land, humans as lovers become deeply human: Their two feet and hands spread out, straight in angles out-reaching, as their desire demands a touch of a line of love to heal them, and always to let a lushness drip out from in-between.

As lovers they engorge themselves, they become slabs of steaks on beautiful plates of porcelain beds. They breath colour-scented kisses down the meat cracks of shared pulsing nostrils, and slip livid fingers underneath ribs of wet clouds. In this immanence, also a deep vegetary state is formed;

wet pieces of rained-on cabbages sprouting roots to merge with their soil,

As do the jungle vines lick their way across the great, great dark trunks of a certain protective sharpnesses, so do fresh fingers by taste discover the shafts and veins of friendly warmth. Emissions of continental slabs and needs like dark slates of obsidian,

In coitus, a single dirty finger pushes through the breach into fantasyland, and pours shivering it’s white milk on top of disgusted unicorns. No love can be made without these eruptions; The volcano of desire must run it’s course through black ground to burn as rainbow-skies.

This is the form of growth. Imaginary, heads like flowers lit in fire by the sun press and brush against each other, while leaving invisible traces of skin-glitter to seed the other individual.

Sprouting new fingertips to carve errant highways, little by little, across forested lands to end at their final breath. Grasping a cold stone, yet for one touch so dear and loved.