Notches on the bedposts. Stripped hardwood gouging. Penetrative gashes and clefts. The bed would collapse if every rutting it had played host to, were scored into its grain at the point of a blade. For like termites, we too bore instinctually. We agglomerate mounds of our own. Besides this is not my biography alone. I am only one half of the annals, albeit its physical constant. On occasions it may be my consorter who wields the poniard. We don’t want to blunt the acuity. Take the edge off our whetted expectations. So no, not notches as sexual history marker.
Bedding spoors bedding. Cloth filter of human lees, bed sheets through which we are strained. Jism, blood, mucus and sputum. Colloid suspension from our coital fermenting. Human coagulate. No palimpsest this, the linen blotter must never undergo abstersion. No laundering the conjugatory trails of otherwise vaporous bodies. Mine included. These powdery residues are the lone proof of our porousness one to another.
For this horizontal elevation stands as the human log. The track record of how bodies tally. It adsorbs what we can’t retain of each other. Chromosomal chromatography. Our sex shroud. Of sodomite shit and gonorrheal discharge, those salted away secretions given vent and seasoning our lives. Our diverse human intimation. Double penetralia exposure, hers upon mine pon hers pon mine. Building up archeological strata of carnality. One you won’t need to square off or use a fine haired brush to excavate. One I can stare at any minute of the day before I go back to scale the actual rockface, prickaxe in hand. I am more present in those ghostly past outlines, than in any other worldly incarnation of me. And when I die, when there are no more emissions to cum, then I want to be buried in this winding sheet.
Yet does not the cotton folio limit the very possibilities that are to be imprinted there? The body-moulding tectonics fixed to the flat surface of a spongy mattress? No volutions of table, rug, or even hard up against the wall or concertinaed down the stairs. No harness, noose or rack, though such distension geometries can still be engendered within this plane.
Closefisters, tightwads and skinflints, hoard their worldly riches under their mattress so that it tumesces towards the ceiling bearing them aloft. Well the accretion of incrustations where we have let go our bodily capital, raises its relief as we too teeter precariously atop it. We fuck on the diminution of our immediate predecessors and it heightens us. Vertiginous plunging and deep soaring. We revel in our currency exchange. Our liquid barter. Our speculative investment in one another.
Positive avowal of the mattress, bourgeois as it is in that ‘lie back and think of England’ manner. For here you no longer have to shut your eyes, but merely cast them sidelong to the sheet to trace a whole culture’s intercourse mapped out in milky outline. Scalloped contours and chalky escarpments. Where we lashed and dashed one another on the rocks and washed up limp and broken on the waning tide.
Portraiture, landscape and materially abstract expression all rolled into one. Kinetic art under glaze. My palette knife cock grinding pigment as we retone our flesh. Hotspots, flushes and seepage. Joyously daubing the linen canvas, blending and mixing ourselves in vibrant hues. Shared ardour desiccating wishy-washy water colours. Prospecting after heavier body oils. The gushing flows picked out in ochre, lapis lazuli, camboge, cinnabar and cochineal. The terre verte that underlays our burnished flesh. A chiaroscuro play of light and dark as we each foreground the other’s perspective. The pentimento captured and preserved, without regret or shame. Our unrefined essence, quarried from the deepest seam of self. How we strike deposits of basal ore. Our deepest bedrock of being, blazoned here on this bed. Desire substantively limned. The floodplain course of human appetites.
Do You Want To Come Upstairs And See My Etchings?