poetry

Free willingness

If everything is predictable, and even when I fuck

you in passionate embrace, someone somewhere

knew – before I even thought of doing

so – that indeed the deed would surely take place

in some glorious disgracefulness or two, at around

half-past midnight on such and such a day of

desperate yearnings and

apparently freely chosen sex,

does this mean that everything is absolutely

predestined –

fated,

belated,

hated to a millimetre,

rated in points that measure our performance

and allow those clever bods to spy on every

movement?

Or does predictability simply indicate simplicity?

Does the fact that you know how I love a certain

person,

in a certain way too,

as much as I have loved almost

anything on earth (and in fact that would be quite

untrue of me to say: there is nothing I could ever

love any more

than

you … my night and day!) mean my predictability

trammells my path to such an extent that

when we choose to touch each other, there are

numbers that determine our choice?

Or can we ever, even now, say that when two

people fuck and love and kiss and hug and smile

and laugh, and come together and come apart,

and make each other happy and make each other sad,

every single step of the way is determined by

freedom-loving steps that have come before:

liberty

bodice gorgeously

ripped from gorgeous breast as the

strengths of these lovers are tested to the max?

Standard