I can see its skin through its shirt

I like clothes with holes in them. Moths or well-worn are both fine. But never for fashion’s sake. A pair of pre-torn jeans is pretentious. A faux pas. You have to earn your disheveledness through extensive living, washers and clothes dryers, or feed a family of lepidopterans. Now put the fuckin’ lotion in the fuckin’ basket.

Love in the time of the singularity

Maybe in the future we won’t fuck anymore. Just touch our heads together. Our heads growing bigger and more powerful. Everything tied up in those neurons, all sensory perception barricaded there. All nerve endings migrating to our temples. And when two heads, propped up on mechanical, android bodies because our hollow skeletal bones are insufficient for the task, touch, those ‘beings’ will orgasm simultaneously. Feel united, complete. That will be love. No heartache no despair no cock thrusting and depositing semen. No quivering vaginal walls. Just skin, two patches of skin, residing directly external to the prefrontal cortex, connecting at an atomic level, conducting electrical impulses, messages, communicating infinite adoration.