the history of the world is written in sex.
walk on the old earth, and
we see intense copulation.
that kept their naked bodies warm
and their races alive.

walk with the prophets and mad men,
born of divine libido
and archaic chastity-
lost somewhere in the dictionary of time,
spilling blood and white on rocks, gardens, and chessboard rooms, of grey shadows.

walk in battlefields,
and we see spies traipsing through dead bodies,
and seducing men of wounds and hurt,
lonely and drunk, and eager to spill.
kissing generations with the blessing of death.

walk in brothels of the ages
in filthy whores and barren paintings.
we see broken men of tears and flatulence,
of pity and shame,
prostituting happiness and children.

walk in adultery.
young love in cold and hot barns.
fear and love and soiled shirts.
eloped villages and immaturity,
who lived to tell?

walk in marriage,
carnal duties, and bad poetry.
taunting mockery and sanctioned ties.
songs, and shocks and muffled shrieks.
dimpled embarrassment on blood-white sheets.

walk in the speculation of Alois Hitler’s sex life,
walk in Picasso’s will, dedicated to his million muses,
walk in Neruda’s affair with clean houses,
walk in the history of men
and we see that we carry each other around in our pockets.

– Shakya


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