the sound of color calls my name taweetly woo - tantra bensko

ah, the springtime birds are singing, and it's time to deftly believe. it's time to dash all hopelessness upon the hearth and twist and spin to our hearts' content. because, well, the birds are singing joyburfully, spandastically, their sap expanding, dripping with nectar of deliciousness, of clitorousness, of lickishness, and we are alone, alone, alone. it's time. it's beyond time. we are beyond time. and we are seeking, seeking, seeking, see keeng, see keeng, taweet, taweet! tawee!

before we enter into the intertwining, we must lick our backsides, lick our contortionism, lick our secrecy. are we ready to be seen, our auras's curtains thrown open wide, our every modicum of decency torn away, our inner selves translucent, shimmering, but vulnerable, pinned upon the eyesight of our clairvoyant suitors with no hiding, no going back, no reparations, but pure, pure honestly. our auras will spew, will burst, will scintillate with other handsomeness, will rely soley upon trust of our suitor's forgiveness. the suitor, of course, being totally imaginary, as of today?

today! today! taweet, toway!

ah, we lay it out. our auras and their maroons, their violets, very easy to be seen, and proud of it. but the reds, the greys, the browns. are we ready? are we sure we want our playworld suitors of the dreamingworld to lay eyes upon our auric displays of our deepest feelings at all moments? or do we want to find a dullard, a material boy who dotes upon our breasts, ignoring the crepey wrinkles, ignoring the sag, eternally fascinated by the size, the size, the size? taweet, taway! spring today!

we are ready! we recoil. we are ready! we recoil. okay, we seep. we let out a small tentacle of redness, ruddy, rusty, muddy, dangblasted, goshdarn dark, drunk, heaving, wanting, longing, spondificating, rastaroonicarious, rambunctious, rabid, racy, raucus, rollicking, ranting, rowdy, and pull it back fast. okay. how do we imagine our imaginary seeing that red? if he sees auras, and he sees that, will he continue to place us on his dish of fine deserts, fine requests, rehearsals for the heaven of divine descent, fragrant, perfumed love of all senses, beyond all sense, all finery, into the depths of organs, time, containery? will we still be his princess of perfumery? his love of all eternity?

well, maybe. if we see his aura move towards another fillyiscious, stalking her integrity, pink, reddening, licking her perfumery, will we also feel eternally security? will our aura then twist, and whip her, clip her, lick her, hip her, leave them both confused?

ah, then. maybe once again it's time for spring to unfold, as we hide away inside the house, looking out. feeding the birds, and going back to sleep, to dream of auras, dream of lovers, dream of whipoorwills upon the bedposts, twitting, twawitting, looking at us askance, concerned, their heads askance.

ah, then, it's time. it's time to say, damn, lover, see my aura. see it true. here it is! it's red. it's loving him; it's loving you. it's spinning here; it's spinning there. will we be true? will we be all things together, through and through? i'm ready! tawee tawoo!


Bio: Tantra Bensko lives in San Francisco, and is an artist and a writer, Her life is surreal, her work experimental, and her flying operatic.