God of Cries

The God of cries is man and woman. She is not half woman and half man. He is not a symbiosis or a collection or a union. The god of cries is everything. She spans and drifts and churns, and he is teeth and mouth and lips and vulva and sperm and cunt and cock.

He has been called a tower, a maze with soft, round stones that are hard, with secrets in the lowest chasms and melodies in the highest peaks.

The God of cries never thinks. She doesn’t speak. But he sings, through the teeth and the pubic hair, like a slithering melodious cry that shakes and sends shivers through the bones, like wet and hard kisses that starts in the neck and sends jolts of eclectic, jolting rushes down the back and ends in the thigh.

Like spasms. Like spasms of sounds.

Some say the God of cries is sad. Some say its tragic.

But really the God of cries is a sect. A platform with vinegar and viny growths with tiny, hard, juciy red grapes that are blackish like hair. And the prayer is masturbation. And the bible is porn. And the hymns are heaving breaths of ecstasy and laughter and creaking beds that fall together and the rythmic pulses and beats and throbs that sooner or later sound just like the cries that the God of cries sings.

And sings.

And sings.