James Mc Laughlin

Muff


Taste. An entanglement of vapours. The form. Whiff teasing at the juice. Desires of intermingling. A distillation of molecules, vibrations, frictions. Flesh orange and fascination, obsession's simple equation: One must find the other. Sensation and centrifugal winding. Earth sent. Grip finger. Blood bone. It was the tight that did it — the shape — the fragrance. Just a touch. A look a weight on my crotch. Was it the anticipation, the wet, the damp, dripping. It was always face and flesh. Smell. Bog weed. You wanted to cut it always. Regret. Loathing. Fear. Hoary my chestnut. Catholic disgust. Finger flagellations. It was a symbol of the sex. The hood. The control. The life giver. The warmth giver. The milk giver. The suffocator. Muffler. The one that wouldn't let go. That put a no more black shoe you do. Mummy. Or something less tangible — never a simple act of love.