Making Your Mark
I often talk about the relationship between sex and creativity.
How sexual energy is creative energy.
And you can tap into it and channel it out into your day-to-day life and projects.
In fact, the more you can connect to your sexual energy—which literally houses your genetic blueprint—you can individuate as a person.
Your creative voice in the world gets stronger.
It gets more “you.”
As you spread your creative juices around, shooting them into the stratosphere, you paint your vision all over your world.
You leave your mark.
Rubbing it in. Until it seeps through the flesh of those who absorb it.
And it becomes part of them.
It changes them.
The lovers who have really touched me, to the core, who have thrust their words, their hands and their vision so deeply inside of me that it has now become part of me, they, they are the ones who are connected to their essence.
In bed, which is the great divining rod, they dive into their own primal, f*ck-the-shit-out-of-you or adore-the-doubt-out-of-you selves and blast every ounce of it into me.
And I gratefully accept it.
I open every orifice to greet it.
The path to unveiling the self you show up with in relationship and the self that parlays your creative vision, has to be the deepest, truest, real-est version of you.
Leonard Cohen said, on the process of song-writing:
“You shatter versions of the self until you get down to a line, a word, you can defend, and wrap your voice around without choking.”
You peel down until you get to the core.
Then you shoot it out.
Your core has no censor. It has no idea.
Like your sexual fluids, it comes from your deepest recesses and is the purest expression of who you are.
These elixirs are so unique, so powerful, that they create life.
This is why you ought never to “dispose of” sexual fluids in any other way than to swallow them into you.
Let them change you.
And re-create you.
The art, the poetry that someone is in their words, and they way they move their hips, lives on in you today.
Gauge of a good poem is
The size of the love-bruise it leaves
On your neck.
The size of the love-bruise it can paint
On your brain.
The size of the love-bruise it can weave
Into your soul.
Or indeed –
It could be all of the
Even if they disappear, or seem to evaporate into the ethers, or the memory of the most epic sexual experience of your life begins to fade, the love-bruise lives on inside you.
It pulses and throbs and begs for deliverance.
And finally finds some kind of peace when you unleash your brilliance on the world.
You’ve procreated something into being.
Then you can rest for a moment in the wake of la petite mort.
Until the restlessness of the ache—often felt as FUKME—forces you to gather your reserves and your fluids and start all over again.