I'm abjectly in lust with a ghost. Having sex with a ghost
is the most reckless bliss: unworldly and twisted
and too good to miss. And oh – can it kiss!
We rest after it with some make-believe toast & ghost tea.
It mimes drinking Oolong. I make like I’m eating
burnt rye. We happily sigh and offhandedly
muse, or – depends on our moods – intellectually settle in
to discuss what our views that day happen to be
on what teleological theory might do some
justice to why we are us. Though we both tend to end
in the same philosophical bus. If I, for example,
rhetorically query him: Isn’t it treason against
a Grand Plan for Phantasm & Man to dive into such lust?
It says don’t make a fuss. Then it will resume its
more worthy pursuit – of exhuming the thrill
of its deathless erotic finesse at undressing my heretofore
hidden, but now – since it knows what deceased
means, and thus what release means – are
well-known excesses, and not quite perhaps what you think.
Think of taking a drink of infinity, so to amass a vast
tenderness you couldn’t grasp without death.