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vanitashazeBefore we get to the sex, I have a funny story to tell you guys. I think I first encountered fanpoetry about spring of 2008. Needless to say, I was completely blown away that someone - more than one person! - had the talent to actually write fanfiction in poetic form. Wouldn't that be cool if I could do that? I wondered, and then immediately thought: oh, don't be stupid. That'll never happen.
It's a good thing no one in authority listens to my predictions, that's for sure.
So: Supernatural free verse of the Dean/Castiel variety and a very definite R-rating. And yes, the title does refer to the sexual position. In fact... sex, death, eating, orgasm, implosion, possession, language, sixty-nineing - I think I hit them all. But non-squicking, unless you're freaked out by blowjobs.
Somewhat related but not addressed in the poem - as far as death goes, Cas is in a pretty unique place, isn't he? Because angels are (barring being murdered) immortal, and so I would think death would be an incredibly foreign concept to them - not just foreign, but weird, in a way that human death... isn't, as much as we'd like to think so. But Castiel died (and was then brought back); I wonder if this affected his perceptions of humans any? In many ways - powers, relationships, dying - I feel as if he's becoming more and more Anna's obverse, alike and yet not. But maybe that's just me.
69
No angel expects the knife.
Love is the natural oblivion for us, not death:
the finality of utter consumption, as planets
are eaten by their suns, a tongue transposed by fire
into a thousand-part harmony of gravity and rock.
It is at once our nature and our escape from it,
in the way a lock will eventually become its own key,
the knot this borrowed body ties with yours.
At the moment of becoming we cease to be.
In this you and I are a kindred, of sorts - siblings
of a shared fate, two starvations sympathetic to each other.
The future is a word that rattles between your shoulder-blades,
pressed there by dead and hungry lips I do not own.
Turn over, you say, and then, No. Turn around.
Your palms sliding up the backs of these thighs,
forcing the soft hair there against its natural bend.
Curved jut of spine, to meet this slight body to yours.
You take me in your mouth and I consent to be filled,
the native language of flesh heavy on this immigrant
tongue. On this bed a thick ouroboros of hunger, devouring itself.
A thousand-voiced bloodline has shuddered to a single point.
A thousand times holy, holy for your moaning hips
twisting in this blue bedspread, a thousand hosannas
for the hands that clutch this skin I wear. You break
off, cry nonsense: Yes, Cas, like that, yes. Rattling word.
The corners of this mouth slick and burning.
You were made as angels are: your realization
is to yield.
.
It's a good thing no one in authority listens to my predictions, that's for sure.
So: Supernatural free verse of the Dean/Castiel variety and a very definite R-rating. And yes, the title does refer to the sexual position. In fact... sex, death, eating, orgasm, implosion, possession, language, sixty-nineing - I think I hit them all. But non-squicking, unless you're freaked out by blowjobs.
Somewhat related but not addressed in the poem - as far as death goes, Cas is in a pretty unique place, isn't he? Because angels are (barring being murdered) immortal, and so I would think death would be an incredibly foreign concept to them - not just foreign, but weird, in a way that human death... isn't, as much as we'd like to think so. But Castiel died (and was then brought back); I wonder if this affected his perceptions of humans any? In many ways - powers, relationships, dying - I feel as if he's becoming more and more Anna's obverse, alike and yet not. But maybe that's just me.
69
No angel expects the knife.
Love is the natural oblivion for us, not death:
the finality of utter consumption, as planets
are eaten by their suns, a tongue transposed by fire
into a thousand-part harmony of gravity and rock.
It is at once our nature and our escape from it,
in the way a lock will eventually become its own key,
the knot this borrowed body ties with yours.
At the moment of becoming we cease to be.
In this you and I are a kindred, of sorts - siblings
of a shared fate, two starvations sympathetic to each other.
The future is a word that rattles between your shoulder-blades,
pressed there by dead and hungry lips I do not own.
Turn over, you say, and then, No. Turn around.
Your palms sliding up the backs of these thighs,
forcing the soft hair there against its natural bend.
Curved jut of spine, to meet this slight body to yours.
You take me in your mouth and I consent to be filled,
the native language of flesh heavy on this immigrant
tongue. On this bed a thick ouroboros of hunger, devouring itself.
A thousand-voiced bloodline has shuddered to a single point.
A thousand times holy, holy for your moaning hips
twisting in this blue bedspread, a thousand hosannas
for the hands that clutch this skin I wear. You break
off, cry nonsense: Yes, Cas, like that, yes. Rattling word.
The corners of this mouth slick and burning.
You were made as angels are: your realization
is to yield.
.
