I touch my soul to yours at the mouth and two needles knock in our hearts. Self-absorbing colours mix in heat maps — purple and red turning gold, all the colours of creation flashing through us in neon pulses as we writhe. Aaaaah, give me the touch of my lover’s hand upon my neck like a brush in paint. Give these colours in my head the touch of spirit her eyes will need. Sometimes there is a way. Get your love to lay you down ten miles long and be a lake in the sunset — a long, thin finger lake, a lake that darkens with pain and mystery in the evening, rising up and menacing the cliffs of love. Let your love then lay upon the stillness at the centre of you, a hand that spreads it, calming you out to a lapping and shimmering in a moonlight that is green. Sometimes there is a way out of human agony, my love. Sometimes we can move with kisses dark rivers of pain in the throat. There are regions of sunrise in my being which can break their boundaries and spread if you but touch the key. O I am here to announce that there definitely is a way, and our bodies, our gestures, are maps to it that we must follow like blind ones touching each curve of Braille in ecstasy as we wander along the blond and tawny roads.