Kirill Koshkin - Intermarcity

In the pattern of the night the bodies were woven. Line by line, turn to turn. They build the passion of stars, triangles, interlaces. Breathing flows the body into the body. Sheets slip, saying: ‘copulation, copulation, copulation.’ The heat of a whisper with vague beads of words flows through the air, through the dusk. Slips-lays down the skin, behind the ear, with a wet curl, a strand in an open, empty mouth. Sigh of a bow on the dull strings of a groan. A soft hand slid along the folds. She squeezes, pulls, hungry looking for the touch of necessity, thirst-need. She meets his sister and whisper: ‘copulation, copulation, copulation.’ Another thing happened. She turned to other consolations-pleasures. Round to round, saved to the keeper. She puts her palm to her stomach and holds the world, folded into the sweetness of tubules and secret grooves. She draws on her stomach a sign singing: ‘copulation, copulation, copulation.’ She comes, late, insatiability, sits on the edge of the bed, lies down. She hugs them. She hastens a string of sweet sighs to the exit, presses the waves with fluffy paws, and presses again. And she whispers: ‘copulation, copulation, copulation.’ And she smiles into the darkness. And she laughs silently and contagiously.

The morning began as if someone else’s bright future was beginning. The city is blue and appearing through silhouettes, smelling with heavy leaves and sleepy people. A mellow rumble spreads. Above the eastern edge is a parallelepipedic cloud. In it, the path winds fiery, paved with a new, rising sun. An open balcony door takes the passing morning whisperers in the frame. They are immersed in each other faces, tangle their hair. Whisper with quiet coins rolls out of barely moving lips. A bird flies past the window. Then two more. Wings through the air, like an echo of an indecipherable babble on the bed. Birds whisper at dawn. Women whisper with the innermost. A sleepless night rolled into the University. She took a phenamine ticket, licked the biting meat, fingers, and, swallowing the rowan nighttime blue of the barol, spilled something red already on the western edge. She has let out senseless museum visitors in veins of the Bolotnaya Square. Then they floated and looked at the strange, black-and-white faces from the parallel reality. They walked and went again. Now they lie exhausted and cut off the received by the predicate and inaccurate.

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