An open book,
Jacketed
By a smooth, synthetic shell:
Bound by pretenses,
So slippery and shiny,
As to slide effortlessly through the human carnival.
A skin
Shimmering with limitless varieties of hue and form,
Imbued with desires, and titillations emergent,
And hopes and dreams transcendent.
Without psychic separations borne from shame,
The desire is real.
The dream is real:
A holographic construction of the sublime—
Condensed in the entirety of one mind—
Emits, and expects.
My light shines
Through the translucent latex
