by v manuscript
Conversations with the mirror, (hissing…) “what,?” HISSING and the aplomb of illusion. Mononymous persons and “the pigments of bewilderment.” (whispering…) “speak up,” whispering. “Who cares?!” I care, so strange how you understand. “I’ll refill my dear.” Rose colored wine stain on the tooth of the page. Blood on the beige blouse. I’m the devil in the black dress again. (accurate and hermaphroditic).
I was writing as a lady when she rang.
I am writing on precisely what does not require reflection, but realized just to keep it would never do. “I am inspired to accept your offer to allow me to passenger,” and a pas de chat, though clumsily. “I think I’ll set that afire,” she trials, sopping wet. Dancing in a sphere of motive, and when she climbs, higher and destructive, (and I continuously looping: rawrawrawrawraw).
We talked about nothing. Not about nothing, about nothing.
We are little girls, perfect little girls lying to our parents.
“Snow is white only if it’s white,” or something.
I wait for morning … that’s a reason I guess.
Later, “lacking your absence, to choose words carefully.”
We might have to be misread.
A moist dish of mushrooms, under a parasol of rope and rain. Both clothed in beige and black, souced in the same perfume, a mask of white musk. She, “there is a certain cadence to all of this,” yes, now we are dancing. Her name is drinking early, she, clad in clean holes and pain tolerance. White mascara tears, dancing like pissing, and women that by any other method are not women. He has my lips, inward and poetic, and tickles her hose, hands, period fucking, I see. You borrow from a mirror, lesbians today, and ‘I’s naturally. Green tea and her lake dream, I am always stronger in the feminine. Too much wine, quite a monastery. I pull my lips inward and suck them together, rubbing my tongue across back of the bite. The way she says her ‘SW’s… “sway”, “swan”, “swallow”, Pressing the back of the teeth with the tip of the tongue.
She also, “I was all of bewilderment.” (Forgot name again.) Require reflection. So unanswerable to ask if the edges of the mind are inaccurate. A little exhausted, distraught. A waste of dirty language about young lovers. Her, “I have over-flowed my pockets, now spilling out to fill the gutters.” (Inundation?) I know nothing more, our wet minds, a ritual smothering, a spectacle of nascent desire, intellectually unified, within the affair, to understand nuance, but of passion? And a hopeful promise of ‘mutual masturbation’. To vanish from the caffeinated high, to speed through the absolute threshold, to cut lengthwise into that antique book, and her focus on my focus on her torn hose, her midsection, the childish dalliance, the night-prowling, the un-moistened eyes, I surrender imploringly with the impetuosity of the dead. I shiver at death, but crawl with the others. Black slip straps, truth nowhere in her nightgown. Bites at me, scratches my neck, dodging my kisses with fisticuffs. I fall routinely into bliss, whether or not I now deserve it. A moment later she feels sexy, that’s all. I watch her, causing me that explosive desire of men… The whorl of the space before dawn. Our mouths open, the brown-eyed daughter and the woman in creased light, brushes her hair to one side slowly, aching but he wants to.
She charms me with her writing; there was no more ‘original’, all forms disintegrating. I was content like a scar. We sweat off yesterday; can’t stop sweating even if she wants me to. Our faces close, hair into the candle light, catches fire, briefly. The night brings introspection; they exist, they exist, in the mold of creation. God how she wept, in the prism-room. Helen, the retired goddess, the piss hot sunlight, the eroticism of killing him: (let the blood fall where it may). The few drops that remain, like cat tears, remind me of the lesbian with cat scratches on her face. Deliberate acts of darkness and a pagan excuse for a sordid insanity. An overbearing odor, an eclipse of inversions, within a certain seriousness, to endure something obscene. Of the double-sex, sweat mixed with the two-edged blade, you are a great reptile with your insane passion for any woman bitten by sorcery. I bandaged the cut upon her forehead, and poulticed it with kisses.
* what impudence
She smiled roguishly.
She tops and is worthy of that leash, and the woman fills the gap between my formlessness.. as he snarls with ash, blocks the offensive: for they are both of both sexes.
Everyone removes their clothes, she hovers gently, gently moaning, as natural as a madman.
He starts to cry.
I do not deserve anything
The lilac of loss, sitting next to, nicely, the finite and fertile green of agency.
…her piss hot sovereign presence sprawled out on the chesterfield, button leather and beaded nail trim, wooden feet bottomed with brass casters, the two davenports, swivel top, growing increasingly ornate, with hidden compartments and cubbyholes, mocking their wet and twisted bodies, staining the sofa with gifts of pleasure. I’ll objectify you only if you want me to. “I understand everything,” she laughed and kissed him like a dancer.
Melodious and merciful, “so goodbye to the passions; everything was so horrible and poetic.” And I was just walking around for a few thousand years.
My entire memory of last night is a bruise. “Now what?” I hide myself in the mundane and almond whiteness of the morning.
Jane throws bruises at me; I suffer through her glance. The party goers spill their silhouettes, and a pretty little Annabel kisses the women with gasoline. Ursula willing the windows open, her torn hose, hands grasping at the horrible night. Anna gaffs, “can you keep one of the windows closed?” she disdains at the breeze-keeper. It’s more of a psychological request. Let us curse the fine bitch.
I am breathing unnecessarily heavy, longing for walks in the unnameable, conversations with everybody. Not one original thought.
Where does it hurt? (‘I feel nothing.’)
“I don’t like you like this.”
“Good, I’ll change.”
Annabel is violence.
I feel at home with death, but how she disciplines.
Also, “I need sex.”
“I just spoiled that.”
How do you feel? How does that make you feel? How do you feel when s/he says that?
She looked more like a moment … he shouts, “’Perfect’ silence, unlike ‘total’ nihilist.”
“Who are they?”
(They’re dying young lovers.)
Dancing as a woman tonight. Feeling prophylactic. Casually demonic. Swallow something evil. Oh and do not allow chance, (and I never say that), you’ll love this only as you have planned it. Gin breeds a certain style of sinning. A real bonfire of the vanities. Algorithms designed for the cowardly, invert them, make them stronger, but they squeezed me, strangled me, “good luck,” I cried, but I share this ugly piece of clarity with everyone, “everything is cruel, flesh-like.” I drink to receive this incorrectly.
The sorcery of midnight, the fog that made it here instead of elsewhere, incognito, to be seen only by the light of angst and the clarity of danger. You never understand the cult from outside of it’s tall doors. He was dressed like a servant lady. “Trying not to be gay,” I say and kiss another man, penis but no notice of personality. We all want to die, all morning. I secure a space before dawn; copy the sofa on the floor and recline against the wall, rigid-like.
The liturgy of wickedness, ignomiously.
Alexander blushes when I says it’s a sin.
He immediately barks, “shame is more like a rope between us and our victors!”
I tried turning off, soaking in a flask-full of softness, but he gets angrier.
It worries me what type of drunks people are, what’s really going on inside, you know? “I’m also quite delirious due to a fever,” he offers, but I have no excuse. I smell the salt water of the corrupt and insane, and my scars resemble the Atlantic Ocean.
Leave us ladies, standing here so well, with the feminine ability to find the mirror, here between the machines and the male eagerness. And as Truth comes to look at it, imprecise, the boys continue to imitate fucking. A spectacle of men, whose evenings are racing about young girls; I am thinking of righteousness and stimulation. Here the boys are trained in the jargon of absolutes; disillusionment!
It’s a hole. You pee in it. Simple really. Men are disgusting. Catch my sordid reflection in a puddle of piss. I want this to feel very innocent.
Cleaning up after you ladies.
Penis like a woman.
She stains me with suffering. I lie down, useless.
Free from the idea that anything actually matters.
Only ‘you’, refracting, all needs and desires equally met, given, accepted.
The incestuous angry dating people that will say, “it works.” She has been seeing this one girlfriend, never found it… Still interested in the panic of cult activity, plant sexuality; I drew this up early this morning. Must be the chaotic language, but the boy in our arms disagrees and scratches at his leg. “We are creators, you know,” she smokes on a cigarillo perfumed with purple, “but you should refrain from comment while you’re vulnerable.”
A haze is gathering; our night is running out. He offers a time tearing, “if you’re curious.” We say, “yes”, and like before, it is earlier. We drink wine with him, in the bondage of quietness, in the spire of the bathroom. Time is so often crawling, yet it is infinite, endless, and like Odin he laughs sweetly. She likes Alexander’s bird’s eye make-up and dances up an idea of something obscene. I’m there to discover; Alexander leads us with an oil rag ablaze with spittle, saliva, lighting the natural curvature of the cube of consciousness, “what?”… (echo) “Most magnificent,” and I send flares of bewilderment. Tomorrow morning, these passions, tour ahead confidently, solemnly.
Life is not usually observed as a story of choice. Life is not strong.
It could help us to vocalize during sex. “I am embarrassed that happened,” she says. I say, “don’t be. No need to.” She, “OK, I wasn’t really.”
You have nostalgia, but not too much. Later pen phrases that stuff the journal inside of its jaw-like doors. Tonight, scribbling in a room with the romance of mercy. I fashion a novel; so much more than a passive vessel. Never pure, never seen before; I masturbate to escape something, to beprose disorder.
Part memoir, part fantasy, all memory, all perfunctory onanism. I drink to stop writing. Chapter one hundred and covered in filth.
The author of infinity in the attic window of an original thought.
We flock to the dungeons.
He bade me forbid my journal.
“his insufferable scribbling… Who Cares!”
why don’t you go see a psychiatrist
Perfumed, I presume? ‘To know not,’ replied the man of ostensible experience.
Smelling this beautiful Beckett hardcover.
Tasted exactly like I’d have thought.
Had an orgasm reading.
Trying not to be very useful.
You can’t do everything, oh but how the blind can smell.
‘Androgynous’? I’m going to the funeral.. Once inside…. I were only an imperfect idea. Who of you, in the back pews of the mind, are living?” Me: “Nothing. Nowhere.”
‘Androgynous’? I’m definitely not, gently moaning as having never forgave myself for some confusing outrageous crime. Pursuing only attraction for a torturous monologue and less about fucking, Her glow, “..perfect.” ‘Pure?’ I say don’t. Then slow beer gossip. She, while collecting in a body, like all of us, continuing to die.
>Love exists only as a chamber
[That’s not a verb I recognize.]
>I recognize that clause, and champion the blood that bred it.
[Please rephrase your command to start with an imperative verb, like LOOK.]
>Look down the hallway.
[That’s not something you can see now, or I misunderstood you.
Fell ardently in love with the babbling stream,
Love is a ( ).
One who is employed to take dictation or to copy manuscript, what others have written.
I’D HAVE HOPE, I’D HAVE HOPED.
I NEVER DOES.
(in the tone of a tall handsome person)
I was to furnish a retelling:
Of course my own hand on my own groin, a common place,
and what is a weapon?
Fetid religious despair.
“True God” is a moss,
tenderly loved by everyone,
turned out to be a fine young fool.
A gallantry in his voice, if he could just keep a moustache.
And if so… shoot the honorable gentlemen.
A suspicion of clarity,
and worthy of the plague,
against the Flagellants,
I get harder.
I should enjoy contagion.
A kiss is like a bloodstain.
The perfect nudity of strangers,
fine dining on aberrations, momentarily drop down into Hell,
‘The corrupt and filthy life’ (check)… of a great wrong that I write.
Some violent words,
an indecent symbol,
with satanic mockery,
the absence of laws,
we had intercourse, worshiped the same God,
she said I would be kept clean,
I’m not sure I had ever seen a woman before.
Says she’s dressed like a singing wind.
“I’ve been in ‘the tunnel’”
Say it with dishonor!
Seduced to write a poem.
The sweat was pouring down my pants.
Her white satin dress flowed behind her chair, instead of semen,
rising ever upward unto the Lord Mayor’s offices.
“THE MADNESS OF THE EMBRACE.”
Of the Means of exciting a woman.
Or, he may report to the butthole.
“Dark and puckered”…. (more possibly)
Let the men fight.
“No one understands her…” I ejaculate into the banquet.
I understand what she is embarrassed about.
VENUS is a misunderstanding.
To dance around childless,
the melancholy of a woman,
she is an irritation.
Her face through the realm of whiskey,
a keen sarcasm, like peacocks in the library.
The monthly curse,
on the balcony of cruelty.
Only secretly and Only on the second floor.
Your two pussy sisters.
We must suffer alone.
“It means ‘ejaculated’” her blood dripping,
forging literature like a surgeon,
the plight of the human pulse,
the sixteenth book,
and a curiously oppressive sensation.
Make sure to take the pity and herbs it takes to cure that sickness.
Our hands both gloved in the risk.
Nadja, over there, on purpose.
I am unapologetically watching her.
“It’s the caution of Clara…”
This is perfect.
Oh god, to disassociate.
Or as Beauviour would say of him…
“It would be a blemish on a better man.”
Noel leans into his yawn and speaks volumes on that boring book.
As clever as an Amputee,
the universal donor,
The rude princess
in the changing room.
The drool of the poet
The depth of the female orgasm
The pocket-watch of the assassin
morose with a perfumed collar
Sonia in the shameless service of God.
‘Androgynous’? I’m allowed to forget.
Inform the guests, I surrender an adjuration,
Coeval, the Queen’s command,
an abominable word,
somewhat doubtful memory,
laws dealing with devils and prostitutes,
I want to avoid that shameless creature,
he’s drenched in a cause,
common-prayer book of crime,
I cried at the table.
An opinion of puberty,
the plighted faith, in filth.
Sina watching Sonia watch the other diners.
Ethically, he is so unsexual.
We talk about her lips, and the acquisition of religious merit.
Quarrel with women of faith,
with the puissance of a cherub.
Everyone talking about their daily tasks, a trifling bore.
Do you want to get away from the electric light?
In the city of Lesbians,
sends her to the unheated room.
Reading the in-between of one inch cuts cascading down my flesh; a ghost in the basement.
The first time I came as a demon. “Oh, mother!” I swallow..
Proust says, “if I’d been born a girl, I’d like to be a lesbian. I’ve started looking at other women and pretending I am. It’s arousing!” Yes, this seems accurate.
She, “Be a man for a woman, why don’t you?”
Well, honestly, I get confused. Trying to BE the object of my OWN desire.
The ‘truth’ is, I just don’t care anymore.
The ‘truth’ is, only there in an alley. We piss on the bedding there, marks our territory, and we lie, limp, unarmed. And weakness is peace, silence in the foothold of battle, and decipher whether to explain or nothing. We work precisely ‘here’ because the device underneath Reality that provides a writer subject only surfaces during dedicated sessions of madness. Incognito, to be seen only by the light of angst and the clarity of danger. Sewn right onto the flesh. No one in those parishes we call light-headedness could commit, stayed in their disgusting, distinguished halls.
“Wherever you want but I sleep here,” and pointed to an unused blank corner of the room. Hell’s darker chambers, these two drunk women, they accept me. ‘Where nothing is mystical’. But for this same reason, that aspect seemed a trifle compared to the tears that followed. Woman in pearls (thinking irrationally), stretches arms outward, hands grasping a sphere of glass, asks of herself, “what really matters?”
“Nothing,” I muse.
She, shocked at the thought of an answer, “Find someone else!”
“But I can’t replace me.”
“You’re so quick to assume.”
“I understand. But you can’t say she’s gay.”
“But I say the most spectacular things sometimes!”
“All those holes we lacked, all fabricated anyway. I’ve realized it was primarily a fever,” Kate drunk, kissing him with kisses. Highly belov’d, being so complicated, as absent as a fetish object, a pussy in the mind.
2 fingers in the ass,
What were you thinking? Nothing, I was simply masturbating.
The history of stroking your penis. The history of gay literature (the male tradition)
Man sticks his dick into another man, into his own ass. Dick into ass, dick into ass, dick into ass, into ass into ass into ass. Men, stacked as high as history can see. Wiggling, writhing, stacked towards ancient Greece, pulling and pumping, postulating in Rome, Constantinople, building empires, faiths, wriggling, collecting monies, debts, armies, wraggling… Societies seeking only the right fissure in the world are only seeking glory, rather together, at each go around, parasitic at best, pursuing only pleasure//or morally encased in a deafening bubble of shame, no sense of self, only the fear of others. .
Anyway,, do you know me?
She finds the letters in the wastebasket.
Moses bored a woman. Drags you into the temple, such a wondrous Ark, as she tries to climax, a casebook of pain, in foreign lands, on account of the boys reality, with her specific gift. She shall tremble, he redeems, a triad relationship or “hell is out of the insanity.”
Fire blazes, the floor and ceiling collapse, all else dwellings cease to be, …The Flood! The Scepter, it is more immediately satisfactory, a ‘lean on’, a crutch, a little longer to stand divided, till inundation: she finds a Hitler, replete with poetry, charisma. He charms her into allegiance, and a call to duty.
Their love is a wink at her fathers, biological males, Adams from outer space, in a church meeting house, a room of semen, women absent, off to sew buttons and mend socks, prepare a dinner and whatnot.
(dad over there saying….)
The stupidity of discourse, I feel the burn! Like parting a heavy curtain.
Later pen phrases that stuff the journal inside of its jaw-like doors.
Everyone is completely sad.
The lion’s mane of his harsh words,
the wearing of furs,
dressed like an old millionaire.
Assembling a purpose out of the wreckage,
I sank or floated.
The city of recovering creatures,
with a bath towel drenched in the female.
Here comes a small glass of it,
a large mouthful of clarity,
wounded by her curses,
sex with their parents, but of course at a respectable age,
some magnetic power of his face, and then ‘out with God’.
Love in the female,
they had been a people of peril,
the predominant consumers of everything in life.
Better to give up than to stop writing.
My tears flowed onto her tears, aqueducts of sweat,
the “vice of sodomy”, called “rubbing”.
Not quite gay boys feigning interest in the anus.
Choose rather to put myself to death than laugh.
Then follows a period of calm in my calamity:
I washed my hands and touched her handsome parents.
The perfection of my crimes,
and a place of sojourn: the ladies room.
The passion of a private visit,
I beg for mercy, like sand slipping through the yoke of their sins.
Wet before mid-afternoon,
completely disgusted with herself,
an array of instruments for satisfying our desires,
completely renounced the world.
No hope to stop writing.
My belief, and look at it as a second option for sex.
Erotica on the pages, more than a fantasy.
We have been subtractive, often I don’t get any more specific, you’ve mistaken me for a man., that which we reject… – Kant
Kant’s father at the top stair, to be consumed by his pain. The child eventually discovers parents are also afraid of dying.
Kant’s father, the harness maker, the family business, never seemed so real, so equivalent.
Horrendously beautiful hair once in the grocery store, I’m reminded here in this subtraction.
We slip into patterns, some better than others.
HELL is true, indeed, to be enjoyed.
Every night, kisses are supernatural,
man desires to be photographed,
alone in his head,
overdoing the gentleman thing,
she can’t escape the knots,
heavy hand of contagion,
he was dressed as a servant lady,
many a night’s liquids,
here in the chamber.
Wool draped as a veil upon the statue.
charmed the sufferer,
the evil hole…
she confides in hell.
A name without a purpose,
“this is called a ( ),” she screams,
a secret from a dying person,
the evil of living,
she was never a woman of Christ.
Peep-holes in the walls,
we prefer it now in the glory of the folds on her body,
I am horny. I think less friction.
destroying my work,
seek counsel in her lap,
all water evaporating, every article of infection,
splashing water about her eyes to clean the mascara streaks,
the pure worship of Hecate,
I had never heard of it.
I did not speak.
Belonging more to sand than stone,
he slipped into her power, she addressed him as a shadow.
And though desiring variety, they consummated in habit.
Escape the keyhole,
God may guide, but never Permit.
We sit together in lonely places,
the Devil’s prison,
leaving a bloodstain in between never and always.
Careless ease upon your knees,
Now her passion accelerates her toward punishing me, yearning for my submit,
leading to the VICTORS BOOT, and a rueful victory.
‘Slaves are also men’, staring into my hands, staring at every cell, every atom, every particle.
That’s when Corinthians first came into my mouth. (she is so wonderful, we can tell)
Giving masculine names to immodest sentiments.
(the Greek word for wife is the same as woman)
or, “all things to all men”. We see.
Trying to fuck someone into the plot of this novel,
attach their significance by flesh.
HELL is all. No matter how. Why is so I invite it. You never return. Memory is only fragments.