I would like to articulate the flavor, the pleasing wet texture of the word that dwells between women’s legs. But to speak it would make the text exude a kind of presence inadmissible to the reader’s sensitivity, not to mention the sniffing of algorithms that nowadays scour everything published. The grid of the law is as thin as silk thread in these times of ours, projecting itself as a new sense—beyond the six or twelve organically constituted ones—and beyond the puritan machinery etched into the mind. A kind of omnipresent antenna, vibrating at every forbidden mention, triggering persecutory reactions, blocking virtual pathways to any text thus marked.
Within me coexist two ancestral legacies, each perceiving the forbidden word in its own way. My earthy grandparents, unashamed of their nudity or desires, sucked on the cursed word with the same pure joy reserved for sweet, succulent tree fruits. Wise and strong people, incapable of seeing in those syllables anything but beauty, joy, the body’s trance. My fair-skinned, metallic-shelled grandparents, who hated the earth and all that was ungovernable within it, chose to conceal the word’s existence and appearance, inept at savoring its essence.
From the mouths of the latter, now and then, one might hear it uttered in a harsh rejoicing of violence, shouted like a bullet spat from an iron barrel. They speak it to curse, just as they pronounce so many other words referencing the body. For them, the body itself is a curse.
I prefer to whisper it, place it gently into a lover’s ear, plant it like a seed of redundant beauty, to magnify its magnetic glory.
🤘🤘🤘