cliche stereotypes maybe not

Maybe I could fuck (art), make it new again because bodies and friction are always new always shedding always reassembling. Bodies are auditoriums and every adolescent breath is worth something. Every assembly is an orgy. Maybe we could make babies together and while experiencing labour pains I could say fuck yes this is something fresh. Maybe I could orgasm at the point of entry. Maybe I could drink myself out of the smoke machine so that my whole body is a white column moving upwards towards the light. Your beautiful faces will be illuminated with words. There will be very little self-restraint at last call when they let the lights release themselves a little. You see more, but with less clarity.
Maybe there will be a conference and we will all do research and decide what it means to be new and sincere and on the internet, and we will all do sufficient research beforehand in order to look as smart as the next person wearing similarly alternative clothing (with the right amount of disdain towards mainstream fashion) and we will all have interesting hair cuts that showcase our individuality and we will all have different names for the tragedy of post-modernism. Let us decide on a name so that we can write a manifesto and feel passionate for a minute until the next trend sweeps us into a new film. Name-dropping is a subtle and important tool. We all know about everything that anyone mentions on html giant. We are all cultured and each of us has chosen the perfect drink to represent a sufficient degree of je-ne-sais-quoi and respect for the too-delicate social order of artists in vintage { insert } and fedoras.
There will be minor difficulties and structural collapses. My lungs will die and curl into each other like lovers /hovering in a smoke-filled veranda/ without genital responses. My breasts are pulsing and heavy and I feel this is what it means to be a woman on television. There will be the hollow sound of another man pissing in the next room (but you will never see his cock). There will be intimacy. Two strangers dancing on the linoleum of a basement dance floor are evidence of god. There is a woman lingering against you holding onto her purse wanting you to BE with her moving while holding onto something inaccessible. There will be little to no thought and only action - only bodies sliding together wet and reborn.