Well, yes, they fucked like bunnies, and yes, they fucked as if it was their last night on earth (when in fact it was early afternoon), but more than that, they fucked like so many, different other things completely.
They fucked like dogs and cats. They fucked as if they were fucking in the rain. they fucked as if were raining cats and dogs.
They fucked as if there was a war going on, a war between the states, a war between states of mind, a war that leaves hundreds of millions dead, some in horrible, hideous ways, some with half their bodies blown away, some strung up from trees, some with holes in their heads, leaking brains and blood and bits of bone, some with bodies contorted inhumanly, some with eyes open, staring up into the empty sky.
They fucked as if the feeling of emptiness that flooded their being for much of the day were somehow mitigatable through the sometimes rhythmic sometimes arrhythmic pounding of their fucking, like a metronome set sometimes to adagio, sometimes to presto, sometimes to anarcho.
They fucked as if Reagan had never been president. They fucked as if Reagan had never been born.
They fucked like cats and dogs from other planets, like a planet where a cat could be a land mammal and a dog could be a sea anenome, or a planet where a cat could be an insect and a dog could be still a dog
They fucked as if they were cyanobacteria, poisoning the planet through photosynthesis, breathing out oxygen that destroys most of the life on the planet but makes way for the oxygen breathers that might one day evolve in to human beings that could then start fucking like cyanobacteria.
They fucked like two planets, maybe Venus and Mars, or maybe more like a Paul McCartney album: Ram, or Band on the Run, or McCartney II or Venus and Mars, and when they fucked, it made music, the kind of music that no sentient being could comprehend.
When they fucked, it was if nothing else mattered, as if nothing else existed, because it didn’t.
They fucked as if their fucking could change everything, when in fact, it only changed certain things, most of which were of no consequence.
They fucked with pride and shame and honor. They fucked without fear of the aches and pains and sores and yeast infections that would no doubt ensue.
They fucked liked donuts, floating in a vat of fat,
They fucked like jackasses on that show Jackass, as if they were tied to a skateboard tied to a rocket flying over snake river canyon, without parachutes.
They fucked like records on a giant turntable while a needle scratched through their grooves.
They fucked and fucked and fucked so masterfully, that if they had been in a porno movie that you were jacking off to, you would have to stop and marvel at the wonder of it, because it was like a ballet, and you never could jack off to a ballet, could you, no matter how hot the dancers are, because it’s so beautiful and masterful. Ditto the fucking.
They fucked as if their fucking could unravel ancient riddles, as if they could explain to every kabbalistic expert the meaning of the sepheroth Da’ath, knowledge, why it is where it is on the Tree of Life, what it’s function is, why it’s not as fully formed as the others, what it meant for knowledge to be inchoate.
They fucked like the first mammals to crawl out of the sea. They fucked like mountains and rocks and trees.
They fucked liked nobody’s business, but I’m making it my business because I feel that it is my responsibility, as possessor of first hand knowledge of the way in which they fucked, to provide a first hand account of it, a detailed and metaphorical account of it, so that we might all learn from their example, not just how to fuck, but how to live and die and be reborn again.
They fucked like they would die a final death that would break the cycle of endless rebirth.
They fucked as if their fucking would somehow, one day, help a marriage equality bill pass through the Republican-controlled state legislature of the state of new york.
They fucked, then took a break then fucked again. Then fucked again.
I never mentioned did I—were they members of the opposite sex? Were they members of the same species? Were there only two of them? Were they human? Maybe they fucked like cats and dogs because one of them was a cat and one of them was a dog. Maybe one of them was a woman with a dildo, and the other was a man with a strap on vagina or a lubed up ass. I never said, did I? Do you feel bad that at some point, when you visualised them fucking, you had the image conform to your own narrow minded conception—two beautiful human beings, one male, one female, both of them in shape, attractive, neither of them old, or fat or incontinent, neither of them wearing a colostomy bag, both of them with all of their teeth, neither of them with unpleasant odors or bad breath, both of them beautiful, one with a dick and the other with a pussy, because like our traditional conception of marriage between a man and woman, when I tell you they fucked, you picture a man and a woman because that’s what fucking means to you. If you were gay, would you picture something different? Wait-are you gay? If you’re gay and you pictured two people of your own sex, aren’t you kind of guilty of the same thing I was just talking to the straight people about?
They fucked like a a totally different story. They fucked like something your small unevolved mind can’t imagine, like—you know how they say that the human mind cannot comprehend god or infinity, or that a flower cannot comprehend a flower? Well, you can’t comprehend their fucking. To ask questions of gender or species or number is to trivialize and to degrade their fucking. Their fucking was made to stand the test of time, to be written about in Wikipedia, under “Fucking,” to serve as a model for all that come after them pun intended fuck you, yeah, pun intended, or more accurately, pun not intended initially, but then immediately after it was written it was noted and the decision was made not only to let it stay but to draw attention to it.
Recordings of their fucking were made and put into time capsules, one of which wound up in the Voyager rocket, to be discovered by life on other planets, who will think about our species and say to each other, fuck me, those motherfuckers sure knew how to fuck.
They fucked and fucked, oblivious to my commentary about their fucking.
They fucked as if they existed in a realm beyond time and space, greater than the universe, smaller than the subatomic.
If it seems boring to think about how they fucked, you are free to stop considering it and go jack off or fuck or eat a sandwich or something. don’t let me keep you.
They fucked as if they were starving for sex, as if they hadn’t had it for centuries, when in fact, for one of them it had been relatively recently.
Man, you should have seen them going at it. Everybody should have. They should have sold tickets. They should have fucked in a grand arena. They should have made a movie of their fucking, it was fucking amazing. did you get that yet? The way they fucked was amazing. My words do not, will not, can not, do their fucking justice. It’s a Sisyphean task to try to convey to you the majesty, the artistry, the pornographic beauty of their fucking.
The other day as I walked down first street, I saw a pigeon fucking another pigeon. That was nothing like this fucking of which I speak.
I’d like you to close your eyes and picture the most awesome fucking fucking you ever had.
That fucking was fucking bullshit compared to this fucking of which I now speak.
Well, okay, I guess I better wrap this up.
I’d like somehow to wrap this up with a pretty little bow that would somehow justify the couple thousand or so words I’ve used to describe this sex act.
While I’m thinking about that, it occurs to me that I didn’t really describe it. I made no mention of the sweat, the heavy breathing, the particular positions or devices used, the moment of penetration, or even whether there was penetration (there was) or even what penetrated what, and how often and for how long.
Well, maybe that’s a little personal. Maybe that’s more intimate and graphic than I chose to be just now.
Although I’ve been accused otherwise, I do have some sense of decorum.
I’m beginning, however, to be embarrassed about the way I’ve gone on and on and on about it.
I hope, if they ever come to realize that I was talking about them, that they would find it in their hearts to forgive me, and to accept it in the generous kindhearted way that Joe Schrank accepted my poem of last year about him.
Because god, I love the way they fucked, and I would never want them to resent me or even worse, to become self conscious about the beautiful way they fuck and as a consequence, stop fucking. For that would be fucked, if they were to stop fucking on my account. because of my account.
Especially considering I’ve used their fucking to serve my agendas.
I used it to serve my political agenda by mentioning marriage equality and Reagan and I had meant to mention something about how the investment banks and the politicians who do their bidding have led to the near collapse of our economic system, by saying something like “They fucked as if their fucking was a call for all oppressed people to take to the streets and vilify the CEOs and investment bankers and politicians who have stolen our parents’ pensions and our children’s future” but I forgot to put that part in.
I used it to serve a social agenda, in that much of what I write is designed to encourage people to come up to me and talk to me about it, although this seldom actually works.
I used their fucking as a way to talk about fucking because I like to talk about fucking
in a sense, you could say that they fucked to serve my agenda, although that was not their intention.
At any rate, be that as it may, when all is said and done at the end of the day, I’d like to thank them for the excellent job they did fucking, and I’d like to ask you all to join me in giving them, as a show of our collective appreciation, a hearty round of applause. thank you,.
The next day they began again. And because of their relief that last time wasn’t their last time fucking after all all, and partly because it was a new day, they fucked in an entirely new way.
The fucking was more violent this time. There was a persistent sense of stabbing repeatedly into the same place, over and over, and of a wound gushing out like a fountain. They both saw it in the eyes of each other’s minds, and in the minds of each other’s eyes.
They fucked as if their immortal souls depended on it, even though they didn’t believe in mortality or souls.
They fucked as if they knew they were fucking for posterity, for the redemption of humanity, to help alleviate the suffering of all sentient beings.
It was good of them to fuck in such a selfless way, and to do so with such gusto and commitment.
I’m so glad they had that time together.
It was really quite considerate of them to fuck the way they did.
The next time I fuck, I will try to keep my mind focused in part at least on the way they fucked, because it should serve as a template for us all.
We cannot compose like Bartok, we cannot play like Yo-Yo Ma or Stradivarius or Hendrix, we cannot write like Shakespeare or sculpt like Rodin, or fight Godzilla like Rodan, or fuck like they did, but all these masters can inspire us all, so the next time I fuck, I will think of them all: the fuckers, Bartok, Ma, Stradivarius, Hendrix, Shakespeare, Rodin and Rodan.
And I will fuck with gratitude that I was born in at a time filled with so many inspiring figures.