As I pleasure myself to a soundtrack of central air and crickets singing summer songs in the garden below my window, the realization sets in that the warm breeze outside was the original pornography.
I recall a friend telling me that he once climaxed to the thought of nature’s grandiosity while hiking a forgotten coast and it seemed absurd to me at the time, but primitive beasts smarter than me knew the secret to getting off was not physical or visual.
They abused themselves to the sensation of a gust of wind that never traveled through main drags lined with skyscrapers; air in its most basic form before we began concentrating it into metal filters designed to catch the essence of earth’s flavors and dilute them into chilled nothingness.
Swirling with thoughts of cookie cutter internet tits and ass backlit by the image of suburban waste my orgasm comes as it always has, but after the momentary elation ends there is sadness.
I will never know purity in any of its intended forms and my innocence was never anything more than a place between ignorance and the acceptance of pretending there ever was any innocence at all.
I woke up early from the American dream, right before I got to the good part
I remember bits and pieces of it, like the new car and the wife with the perky tits
I recall the money, but I woke up before I was able to use any of it
The same goes for the house in the suburbs, but I blame that on the bubble bursting (both real and imagined)
To be honest, I don’t even really remember it being in America other than my brain’s subconscious insistence that it was
It looked like it could have been America; it had all the familiar symptoms
But the people, oh god the people
It was when I saw them that the paralysis set it
When they started stabbing each other and screaming over the choice to raise different livestock
All of which would go to the same market and spoil within a week
Maybe it was America, just not the one I wanted it to be