it is, it is, it is not, it is

It is and it is not. It is how I call your name and you do not answer. I opened my mind to you and all you desired was for me to open my legs. This gate is not open. But yet it is.

It is, it is not, it is, it is.

A humming song that rattles down my brain and leaves me empty dizzy down across my throat as your lips do touch it softly like the dry wind that off of desert flows. Your face like sand leaves trails across my skin and scars its surface in a thousand puncture me penetrations. The pain and burn that come from this drive me awakening to another realm, I want to fly away from your vicious monstrous mind that batters at my sense of self. But I cannot. I am it under this assault, and erased by its irresistability.

It is, it is not, it is, it is.

You think then having me by the throat that you can smash me with the revelation of your power over others, a contempt that screechs over wire and into my eye as if my ear. You think, you do not think, you know, you do not know. It is at the moment that I grow ever cold to you and turn to let you find your own bliss. The flowing spring stops to instant winter without end. The past is frozen within its ice until uncovered by the washing years as a picture of what once when it was. It is better this way.

It is, it is not, it is, it is.

Ah yes, my cunt, that thing that you think makes all holy or sacred or profane, that raises your ire and bends your hate for me to focal point. Ah yes, my cunt, from which flows la difference. The engine of difference, that wheels and turns and clicks and whirs from out of every age into this.

It is, it is not, it is, it is.

Seek thee thine own bliss. We must all find it and follow it.

Even if it is.

It is not.

It is.

It is.