Primal Instinct- by Sara Borkowski

Slap slap slap,
goes the sound of meat on meat.
Screaming out those primal urges,
reduced to the basest of life forms.
In it for the Wild Hunt,
the instinct of kill or be killed.
The instinct of passing on the genes;
to produce the next generation of killer.
Pounding pounding pounding
The heartbeat of the world,
reduced to a simple sound.
Skin prickling, spine bowing, fingers scrabbling for
purchase
against smooth stone.
Thrown against the nearest outcropping.
Dirt beneath the bodies;
in ground and imbedded under the fingernails.
Hard unyielding ground rises
up to meet each fast and furious downward stroke.
In and out, in and out.
Building that primal rhythm,
built directly into the cells.
Faster and faster, spinning out of control.
Spiraling toward sharp edged images of future flashes.
Fast forward one thousand years into the future
and still the same primal parts are played out.
The basest urges have been simplified by today’s
society.
Each and every time two bodies feel the heat of
passion
the past comes alive,
with the sound of panting bodies and sweat glistening
from moist regions.
The pulse of the ages runs through these veins.
Long stroke short stroke, the skin wears thin
and the bodies eventually find that slow time rhythm
of ages passed by;
where primal meets romance.
In a certain kind of happenstance.
Bodies reaching that final symphonic resonance.
That hard won crescendo,
slowly ever so slowly
panting out the dying embers
of an all consuming flame.
Until finally two sated, well fed, tired, worn out,
and sore entities come
to an Earth shattering, glass breaking, screeching
release.
Moving the Earth’s rotation on its own axis.
Coming down out the stratosphere.
Uncoupling from amidst tangled limbs;
who don’t want to cooperate.
Knowing only one thing for sure.
That this time the hunter has been fed
and well taken care of.
At least, until the next time
the Primal Urge takes hold.

******Wednesday 10/1/03 2:45 P.M.