Sometimes a good fuck will make me sob
or laugh hysterically.
It can be awkward,
trying to explain thoughtless tears
meaningless laughter that erupts
from the better orgasms.
Maybe it isn’t just that the orgasms are a thing beyond beauty
and meaning
and concepts
Maybe it’s that they come at a time of a deep need,
a need ignored.
Often these things,
these nameless, thoughtless needs
are really just an accumulation of unwanted,
unnecessary things.
Perhaps it is a funeral pyre of all the detritus of personhood,
of being a being
trapped, suffering, luxuriating in a body.
I observe,
astonished by the variety
of keenly felt, abstract bliss my cunt can create.
At times it is so pleasurable I can’t help but cry out,
or laugh like a madwoman.
When I come I am new again,
I am lost and found all at once
between death and birth,
between pleasure and pain.
Color, texture, perspective, scale,
a continual surprise.
But no words, no meanings, no personhood, only it.