To the man wanking at us on the nudist beach.

 

My body

Is the iron of my ancestors:

Constant creation.

It is weightless

In water,

A ripple

It stretches and shrinks

Like the days of summer.

My body runs warm like a shower

Glows like a gallop

Ripens and slides with sweat.

My body eats the world

Licking every second

And glides into itself

Like milk into tea

It is not a temple

But a kitchen

Of creation.

Simmering scents

Into my personal aura

My body burps, farts

And laughs

Like a musical box

Of living.

It shits in exultation

Every morning

Lays a mattress

Of expectant blood

Discarded

Like a direct debit

Every month

Then thrives, writhes.

My rhythms have

My two hips moving

My body hums sweetly

With the juices of yoga

Orgasms

Sneezing

And being.

My body is soft to my touch

Stroking new blemishes

Softening scars.

In consent,

It opens, a warm bun

Oozes like a snapped Twix

And sings like glass.

My body tremors

Like a building site

With the constant noise

Of creation

Drilling its own

Caverns of darkness

Building on rich earth.

It walks tall

Winds and ages like a tree.

 

My body wakes each day

Naked

As a woman.

 

The iron of my ancestors.

 

.

 

Your body.

A furtive minim

Out of tune.