Curls in China

[Images: Belphegor, a young Cornish rex cat (seal point with white), lounging on the wooden deck of a catio, his nearly-pink tummy on full display. End ID.]

almost! he is a Devon Rex

so many misguided metaphors around violence and desire. if the open maw of a panting beast fills you with the want to be devoured, that does not make you prey. while the rabbit trembles in fear, its deepest desire is to run. evolution demands it. in fact, the desire to be eaten does not make you any small animal at all.

My whole life I have obeyed it—               its every hunting. I move beneath it             as a jaguar moves, in the dark-                           liquid blading of shoulder.     The opened-gold field and glide of the hand,              light-fruited, and scythe-lit.     I have come to this god-made place—             Teotlachco, the ball court—           because the light called: lightwards!                        and dwells here, Lamp-land.             We touch the ball of light           to one another—split bodies stroked bright—                        desire-knocked.                                    Light reshapes my lover’s elbow,             a brass whistle.     I put my mouth there—mercy-luxed, and come, we both,             to light. It streams me.           A rush of scorpions—                        fast-light. A lash of breath—                                    god-maker.             Light horizons her hip—springs an ocelot           cut of chalcedony and magnetite.                       Hip, limestone and cliffed,     slopes like light into her thigh—light-box, skin-bound.             Wind shakes the calabash,           disrupts the light to ripple—light-struck,                       then scatter.     This is the war I was born toward, her skin,              its lake-glint. I desire—I thirst—           to be filled—light-well.     The light throbs everything, and songs             against her body, girdling the knee bone.           Our bodies—light-harnessed, light-thrashed.                       The bruising: bilirubin bloom,                                    violet.     A work of all good yokes—blood-light—             to make us think the pain is ours           to keep, light-trapped, lanterned.                       I asked for it. I own it—                                    lightmonger.     I am light now, or on the side of light—             light-head, light-trophied.           Light-wracked and light-gone.             Still, the sweet maize—an eruption           of light, or its feast,                       from the stalk                                    of my lover’s throat.     And I, light-eater, light-loving.

the poster that this incredible illustration is based on is extremely striking. but while searching for it, I also found earlier posters for conveying this message along with a corresponding one for summer, and I fucking love them. absolutely lovely graphic design work. (both are from 1924, artist is Austin Cooper)