I never knew that nerves were so geodesic;
the straightest line from A to B is North West
Africa (the coast: you need the rain, you need
all the water to feel that you're able to breathe.)
Take the money and run, the honeymoon.
You make love then it rains. Unholy Garden Dodsworth.
You make love. Huge fragments in the wilderness
where Melbourne, Sydney stood. Two headlights from
a Chevrolet — we were two travellers in an antique land.
We make love. Baby Doll. We fuck. It rains.
In sandy silence all alone there stands a giant Cadillac.
Change the flat. Fuck again. (God I love you, tear my back,
I love you forever, whatever we do.) The absolute clarity
of Station Seven Sahara : we want each other, strongly,
like we want the fanbelt fixed. The radiator (water, water again),
whatever it is. Look for rain. Smell it out. Lick your lips.
We make love. Two fragments in the wilderness are clouds — we fuck
to celebrate. You quiver sultry, violent in the sand. Then
that is peace. The making of love and the driving to rain,
to the coast! At last I think I can relax. Freetown
was not named by accident. So misery will always feed, so
slam that bonnet and foot to the floor and your sunglasses glint
in the Gold Coast sun. Don't look on it and don't despair,
I smell your sweetest infinitest body in the air.