Technology Of Senses

I hear you, there,
at the other end of a wire
entering a hole in the wall
my side of existence
and exiting a hole in the wall
your side of it,
the irrelevant black-box between us a minglement of electronics
and finance
and architectural monstrosities
aimed at dirtying the landscape
and reducing the distance between us
to zero.

Click. Touch. Sigh. Hi. Hi.

My voice, no, not my voice
but me, there, next to you
thirsting for your body
covering it with the lust of whispers
and the gaud of insinuations
and veils of gripping debauchery,

your fingers, no, not your fingers anymore
watch my fingerprints take over
see that tiny scar on my index finger
sliding down your belly,
or is it up your thigh
looking for the gate to your eternal fires
beyond those meaningless, worldly cotton shields,

open your mouth wide to gulp the air in the lonesomeness of that room
there, where my disembodied presence invades you
through the thinness of eardrum
and the shiver of searching fingers,
the chair the bones of my knees
the current of air fluttering beneath drapes my scorching breath,

open your mouth wide,
gulp those bucketfuls of air
to fill your lungs and fill your chest and saturate your bloodways
for that moment
when your lupine howl sings of Verdi
and the masses of air purify your vocal chords
into the absolute silence
of after.

Your breathing,
now breaking through the paralysis of muscles
and cutting the quiet to the smoothness of ribboned shreds,
I can almost feel it glide upon my face
as I am about to return from distance zero
to distance of wire, and wall, and wall, and wire
and technology's damned limitations.

Your flesh, when your flesh? you ask.
Your flesh, when your flesh? I answer.

Hi. Hi. Sigh. Touch. Click.