tara and i at the cbc english television awards, 2003

where am i when i am with you. where are you when you are. when my fingers. when your mouth. and your highlit eyes captured in sharp focus. and the ambient soundtrack, multi-levelled, duo-subjective, criss-crossing in tonal interplays not quite a fugue.

and caught in the desire of desire, i strain my ears till i taste blood ....

nyc may 5 2002

The longer I stay here, the more I love you. New York would turn any humanitarian into a misanthropist. If I lived in Manhattan I would become a saint. Popcanonized and cruciblized.

nyc may 4 2002

when you're inside out. dreaming. waiting for darkness. and your eyes can't see what your eyes don't know. and i'm sleeping. dreaming of vision. and i'm dreaming, touching for feeling.

when my eyelids close and my eyelids open onto. and the trees are aflame. and a flower burns my vision. and my vision burns. and blurs. and all i taste is heat. concrete and cold. and my heart burns. and my heart stings. and i step outside ...

nyc may 3 2002

new york. strange atangence.
cum splayed on the plexiglass.

carnivore her tenderloin
raw
cooked and the uncooked
meat
meaty
sweaty

carnivore her hind-quarter
raw
flesh of my flesh
meat
meaty
sweaty

carnivore her breasts
raw
fit to be tied
meat
meaty
sweaty

carnivore her thighs
raw
suitable for framing
meat
meaty
sweaty

carnivore her tongue
raw
great taste less filling
meat
meaty
sweaty

carnivore her her
raw
lamb to the slaughter
meat
meaty
sweaty

sweaty
meaty
meat

she opens me up like a sappy song on the radio
a.m. radio

the birth of the uncool
the loss of loss of innocence

fuck
god

i'm even starting
to sound like her ...

tara ...

fog, before the sunrise, wets the skin beneath my jeans. and my eyes, in the indiscernability of light, sees a shadow that may be you, that may be more than a shadow in the fog. if i reach, would it be you i touch? if i kiss, would it be you that presses back with lips open?

i want to reach through the fog, through the smudge of morning haziness. i want the first light of day to strip the shadow from your form and leave you crisp and fresh before my eyes, before my touch.

and i want to be there, with you, as twilight breaks and dawn ignites. as day resolves and fog uplifts.

Oh lover let me fuck the life out of you until tomorrow drips between your legs. The weight of conversation pulls heavily on my desire and I find myself waiting for godot to suck my cock better than she ever has before. I watch the celluloid flicker certain I've seen the film but unsure of the ending. All these soft-core melodramas seem to end the same: sex and death with honour but an orgasm away.

Oh lover the frosty wind is biting down on my genitals the frozen cock clanging hard against the brass knuckles of my whitened testes. Burn in ferocity the smiling billboard that gleans in low angle shots to mock my attempts to move on, move onward. The skillful lick of lips with forked tongue so lacking in delicacy so forlorn over wasted opportunities to send shivered shocks through my nipple system. The morning waits in anticipation.

Oh lover bend completely before me with eyes closed to the atrocities my desire will acrobatically inflict on your marked remains. The odours of shit and semen compete for dominance neither submitting to the flawless vacuum of your spread unshaven legs. Against the thickened pane the possessed wind screeches with yearning. Your welted ass lifts up in a heartless response.

Oh lover I wipe the blood off sheets from endeavours too suppressed to evoke comment. The shreads of cotton underwear soaking with yesterday fall exhausted to the floor waiting for the finale the final the end. Stroking my memory with muscled fingers I lean into desire and grope blindly. The window cracks and the vacuum explodes ...

does she enter. do i enter her. do the sheets emerge from her skin. does my cock emerge from her hand. does my tongue stretch from her cunt. do her teeth expel from my nipples.

do her eyes bleed from mine. do my eyes laugh from hers. do her breasts digest my lips. does my smirk reflect her sparkle.

and my hands. and her toes. and her mouth. and my mouth. and her ass. and my fingers.

do the cells bifurcate. do the cells enclose. does the tara brent. does the brent tara.

questions without marks. feelings without interrogation ...

The space explodes in an orgy of sound, bodies engulfed by the decibel tide, ears drowned by the continuous crashing of waves, the pounding pounding pounding filling the room with the endless discordance of reverberation.

Mirrors reflect the centre stage, the big top, transmit the illusion of an embodied illusion to and fro and back again.
Watching the mirror, the illusion, the reflection, feeling lost within the labyrinthine echoes of sound and vision, the optical aural house of glass.

The house tumbles once the cued effects are cut and the houselights return.

The end of the show, the end of night, the end of a brief span of dream suspended between the tortuous abuse of body and mind.

But for now, spectacle; for now, on with the show.