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Open: Cunt: Open
2002-09-20 // 5:40 p.m.


And open is the word that comes to my mind when I think cunt. Open. Open.

Colors fall out, spill onto the floor, dance together a tango of brightness and depth and sensual emotion.

Open. Cunt.

And there's a rising in the words. An uplift. As if open means more to me than extending outward and allowing things inside or outside. As if the word itself contains wings, and that by opening, the cunt takes flight. Wings like dragonflies, or feathered bird wings, butterflies with intense, slightly asymmetrical patterns. Wings. Open. Cunt.

Domes, raised, designs like stained glass. The cunt as a church, a holy ground surrounded by the flapping of angel wings.

Inside, invite, interior.

Is dark yet precious, deep yet calming. Descent is ascent in open. In cunt.

And I think of "Reclaiming Cunt," I hear my own voice saying those words, feeling each word tingle inside of me and thrust itself out, spreading wings and flying, from my cunt, from my mouth, into the mouths, ears, cunts, of the women around me. Tell me, tell me, cunt.

And she once said that the vocal chords mirror the structure of the vagina. The soft folds of the interior mouth strangely parallel, literally and metaphorically, to those of the cunt.

Open glory, song singing, uplifting me: Cunt.


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