Sixth Divastigation Plus Four
Cum viribis amnis
So much for spirituality. — And should I junk my list of complaints? Constraint’s capacity gains insight into that customary way of mixing and matching imaginary calculations and contradictory truth functions. Add to it what ludict says. I’m so happy I could construct a logical fallacy. Cynical tract of gushing lusts. Any author’s work (and this thought is as obvious as hay on snow — I claim no lack of all such prior philosophy as that which, you know, piously hoards a crown of parasitic figs) is a sluttish hybrid. Catoptromantic striving for things lost. Including your most singular and original. Or downright ugly. What contrasts is amount of cunning and crypsis an author puts into play. No, I’m not talking about drama. Action! Say that First Author’s work (call it LV by RR) is a long autobiographical lyric of 1028 rhyming half-jagatīs posing as a totally fantastic vision of a tiny photograph of sun, sand, surf, sailors, yachts, cliffs, dogs, wind-blown hats, vacationing adults, and playful kids which that solitary narrator of LV by RR is looking at through a tiny magnifying glass. It follows, thus (to any and all in touch with that human capability (a sort of modification of normal linguistic adaptation) of translating flat inky or chalky or carbon-gray scratchings, jottings, or imprintings into round words), that Author Two’s work (call it SM by VN) is, in part, a blatant plagiary of LV by RR posing as a truthful autobiography. To wit, a throwaway hint to that tiny photograph, that tiny glass, totally blows his bluff. In addition, Author Two blows it by tossing into his “autobiography” a touch of fiction posing as a fanciful biography of a lusty dog by a Third Author (call it F by VW). Adapt approach to pump it into focus. This puzzling machination throbs out its gobbling worm. A woman won’t miscarry two ways to put it. Which is to say that, in childhood, Author Two, on vacation with his family in Biarritz, was thrust, at his tutor’s unctuous urging, into a profound absorption of LV by RR. As an adult, though, struggling to call back that tidal childhood, groping, if you will, through brain mist for a furious vision of that boy — his tutor, ambitiously fondling a foundling, is provisionally out to lunch — with sand pail in hand, wading up to his thighs, no, up to his swim trunks, in that cold Atlantic surf, its foam lit brassy by that tyrannical autumn’s sinking sun — as an adult, Author Two limns for us, not his own childhood portrait, but simply blows dust off that found in LV by RR. You might also say that Author Two borrows First Author’s charcoal, chalks, colors, oils, inks, nibs, and canvas and/or board or wood to copy part of LV by RR and stick it into SM by VN, but roughly, using pins from F by VW, so that any fool could spot it, unpin it, and lift it to show that maggotty pulp of common words into which any author’s work must, without fail, upon pain of dry obscurity, sink its roots. Consciously guilty, no? I think not. For you could also say that, whilst composing that particular part of his “autobiography” which attracts our bookish focus, Author Two thinks, “In addition to that work’s [that is, LV’s by RR] nostalgic location of thalassophilia rhyming with my own childhood autumn vacation with family and tutor in Biarritz, that solitary child I was is so tightly bound up with my profound study of LV by RR, that I will chart, thus, a roundabout allusion to our First Author’s work by way of a passing nod to F by VW, which book by our Third Author saw light of publication’s day just as our First Author saw — during a balmy night in which singing, dancing, shouting, marching, and much loud, cascading bursts of artificial stars would mark his far-off country of birth’s national holiday — his last day of living light, and first, thus, of what dying’s is. In Sicily, to boot.” What was I complaining about?
Passions of all kinds. — And should I patch this monstrous dwarf of hand? Onto that onyx column I did climb. Rhythmic choking down of blood and pus. Stoat shoat goat boat bloat gloat. I think, fair author, you could dial it in to your composition’s circular color chart. What a sight, you sigh: a wincing child! That particular form of writing you lay claim to, according to which a scribbling scrawl, or graphomanic sprawl, of syllabic, vocalic, consonantal, and modal transposition is brought, you know, to maturity by a natural picking and culling, a notional paring and cutting of combinatoric thought-blossoms. Us normal folk call that sort of thing, “words.” Numb mouthful of humming wasp. Luminous shard of mirror. I ought, I thought, to stick it in my crotch! To catch a last dab of color. Gonadal throbs of glowing agony. In my ninth spring’s autumn, mind you, I did marry that virtuous man of thirty. Dictation’s gift of slipshod orthography is opportunity playing with worlds. I’m talking to you, cunt! In fumbling fist is thirsty thumb. Coax it in slowly, my shy fair sultan, coax it slowly into my yawning pink folds of gaping throat wound. A parrot, a toucan, a nut brown cuckoo fly past my window. This should sound all too familiar by now. As if I might not know just what it is I’m talking about. This is not at all any sort of a slicing away at a young girl’s nubility. This tradition. This upright institution. This thoroughly moral custom. Both matriarchy and patriarchy. This opportunity for young woman. By taking him in hand. To crown worldly man’s spiritual ambitions. I paint that glorious playroom with murals of my own shit.
Morning worship at Ishtar’s altar. — And should I quantify this vocational habit’s contagious joy? Not without your happy cloudburst in my hand. And should I hang from that scaffold limply drooling? Not without your happy cloudburst in my throat. And should I stick my arms and thighs with abattoir’s hooks? Not without your happy cloudburst in my cunt. And should I chop this cacophonic spiral, this misanthropic quill, this hazy notion of scatological art into individual units that flop about vainly and prosaic? (But no scatology is vain, woman!) Not without your happy cloudburst in my ass. And could I joint by joint fit back again my body’s putrid parts? Not without your happy cloudburst could I, not without your cloudburst. Against that cold rain a pair of sloths hugs snout to warm snout, spoons, grooms. Miraculously born again I was from that singular womb of black plastic trash bag. Gawking motmots grunt judicious approval. Why?
Symbol of wisdom. — And should I window shop in constant shadow? Look at it through this magnifying glass. Not as small as an artist’s toolbox. Not as big as an aurochs spun from antlion silk. Only pain can buy it. Amidst a scarifying spray of pinpoint nubs, two stubs of sight look out through that brown chitinous mask. Gravid, it works its way into trauma’s crack. Claws, mouthparts, prosoma, opisthosoma, tail. All that plot shows is a small black thorn, a sting of light.
Lawful suspicion. — And should I marry flirtation’s art to just any common author’s output? Not that fat old man, but his adoring critics who proclaim him a voluptuous god of sumptuous writing. Nor pardon what that half-world is quick to grasp and groan. By stalking lasciviously backward that smutty child’s history, satyr mirrors nymph. Partial transformation. My own’s a kind of juicy burp of which I’m schoolgirl proud. Mouth my squinting alto down by vacuous young thirds. Or vigorous. Look — a hummingbird is out hunting wasps! And that charming brown mountain jay is knocking a snail against a hickory branch. Plaid skirt, glossy oxfords, thigh-high socks. On my back I carry a hollow tomb. Grow by moulting. No gonads, no wings.
Writing it as I think it. — And should I garnish this particular patch of ironcold history? “To jot consciously down words,” says G. Picard in his Towards a world of total writing in which all may, nay should, join (Paris: J. Corti, August 2006), “is an improbably ambiguous mirror in which I am constantly losing my virginity in vain; it is a rampant biological compulsion towards that ravishing possibility (probability?) of public adoration — but it is also that which is most solicitous of a typically subvocalic antagonism pitting what is put down in turgid ink against what is still limpidly dormant within us.” Formal analysis on which I stand. In a word — if I am not misconstruing (mistranslating?) this fair author’s point — in a word, our laggard turnings away from that conflict’s clarity is a clay pot (outward show of burnt cord imprints and zigzag incisions; inward splay of larval antlion jaws) full of sand and roots, a scar of scorn, a soul that squats and scolds, a woman loving a man, two or four or six unwilling pariahs (outback’s a shack) raising Ishtar’s child (whips and chains; gags and blindfolds), an application of humility, hypocritical ductility. All this I do not doubt. Crimson as it blossoms.
. — And should I air happily this natural woman’s knack for taking it all so smoothly in? Joyful instability. You won’t abandon it, will you? Not this particular path I’m afraid of. Unwittingly to watch this fall into Ionis Astra
, ninth canto:
Dart now back into your hut — that human-munching bird swoops down,
Drawn by Io’s holy star — dart back out now: with your arrow’s
Liquid music, and your taboo-obscuring chant, hunt that bird
Which slows not, nor shows gravid Ishtar’s front, nor births acrid wood.
As I said in my 68th ludict
, “Much good might flow from a bout of inflicting mutually a kind of utilitarian pain.” Our mouth-lush, craft-avid young corybants, in a word, having found gratuitous gratification by swaying, thrusting, pivoting, and straddling Dudu with two or four or six narrow girlish hips to satisfaction’s satiation in this lupanar, oh holy star Io, now command him with a doubly or triply moral injunction: Go forth now and hunt to pay for your fucking and sucking us, for our fucking and sucking you! Go forth now and hunt, not just any fish, fowl, or fawn, but only, upon pain of turning into human carrion bound and thrown into a Moanzy roosting pit, that fast-flying lazy oa, stormy auk, soaring high in our distant mountain land! Tufa or tuff, a crumbly brown rock. This timorous girl’s first communion. Pour soothing oil upon your foot and thigh. Harmoniously striking against that rocky path. And by stoning, rub raw this calm chorion. In Patrolius’s transcription of that sticky Norlian notion, sarprostium may scan as ‘rim pot stop word’ (as my translations of prior cantos put it), but limns, in this canto, as ‘taboo-obscuring.’ Abstract fiction of wild animals. That much said, that much told. To hunt that magical bird, our bard Dudu must sing, and, by singing, attract it, not into involuntary submission, but into a sacrificial act of willfully colliding with his arrow’s sting (‘liquid music’ again). This canto also warns Dudu (and, thus, any Norlian man, for whom Dudu is a schizomythic stand-in, or formulaic notch, to mark what is and is not taboo) not to kill any Moanzy
displaying signs of torpor and anthropomimicry (“hunt that bird/Which slows not, nor shows gravid Ishtar’s front”). And is it so difficult, I ask, to wring signification from this canto’s final sutric mantra? I wrap my shrug in it, and shroud it with my shawl. If you don’t know, I don’t know what to say. Watch him drool.
1. And should I noncommit
A. an uncommon art’s originary root of lawful singularity?
B. a commanding fiction?
C. a martyr’s mortality?
D. an accumulation of psychospiritual classifications?
2. If pity is an unpaid-for blowjob, play is a
A. particularly happy form of insignificant activity.
B. particularly unhappy form of significant activity.
C. hybrid form of choosing or of loss.
D. sacrificial form of topical inquiry.
3. Why would you want to watch?
A. To satisfy a kind of play of light against rapidly strong ringing.
B. To gratify a mind of clay trying to gainsay a vapid lust thing.
C. To unify by writing day by day imagination’s punctual nobility.
D. To magnify by waiting night by night for prostitution’s liminality.
4. In all of schizomythology’s imaginings, a fanciful spirit of play is
A. champing at body’s boundary’s bit.
B. masturbating at morality’s brink.
C. agitating vanity’s quanta of doubt.
D. laughing at ludict’s limit.
5. Which book did Swiss author Johan Huizinga publish?
A. Raga avis: a study of Indian music’s origins in birdsong.
B. Homo ludicrous: a lucid study that limns why humans play.
C. Homologous humor: a study of sociocultural ludicity in man and animals.
D. Rara apis: a cryptic study of unusual pollinators displaying mimicry.
6. Sociophysiology starts
A. if biology outstrips psychology.
B. at psychology’s biological factor.
C. at biology’s psychological factor.
D. if psychology outstrips biology.
7. Ludict is to taboo as
A. a dictionary is to words.
B. schizomythology is to sociophysiology.
C. sociophysiology is to schizomythology.
D. a word is to a dictionary.
8. To our way of thinking, play is
A. laughs at morality.
B. is a particular form of play.
C. lacks a moral foundation.
D. is totally sociophysiological.
10. What roots in play’s soil?
Promiscuous virginity. — And should I falsify this world’s construction? I saw through it from word go. Wood slats slanting. Crimson plush saffron skirt. Curious child’s hand warm and pudgy. Was I so totally wrong about it? Imagination spins it rich. Virginal promiscuity.
Cough cough. — And should I constrain my invalid play for sympathy? Citation’s bright shaft might shock it off its back. Cough. As from that gray fluff of starling quaking in morning’s cold rain. Cough. A propos of which, according to Gordon Rattray Taylor, “That sundry span of human social action, that promiscuous domain of cultural variations — initiation rituals, matrimonial taboos, lunar symbolism, and so on — which Briffault jots down calls aloud for clarification.” Cough. As from that stray dog limping along a rut of Tixpu trail. Cough. No pity could this pallor claim, physician. As from a cat that marks its gray pillow of Owlstain sky with pus from a suppurating tumor. As from a timid gorilla limply staring through a damp chink of Paris window fog in a book by Nabokova or Novalis. As from a sacrificial girlchild. Small trump for agon’s camp.
Slanting pools of shadow and light. — And should I twist a sturdy fact from fiction’s frail wrist? That day’s gift was not a must, or anything you or I might wish for — but a flourish. Nor bust, I should probably add for clarity. Crunching in pairs through any autumn zoo of childhood. Not for want of trying could I do it right as if from birth. Through no fault of my own. Squatting in sand. Holding up a hollow boot. Shaking out a sharp flat chunk of flint. That old lady’s hand was hard and cold against my own. I look up. Importuning gadfly of lost trust. Half my pair runs off down curiosity’s curving path caught napping in a prison of its own shit. Half stays to watch. Hurry up, now, hurry! Said that cunty rabbit. Zip off that filthy nylon coat and strap this on. What is it? Your magic cloak of constant virginity. Said that rabbitty cunt. Uncomfortably plush saffron rough against my skin. All right, off you go, that man won’t wait all day, you know. Put it in your mouth or up your ass. Until that twinkling sky of shooting stars in which you’ll paint your happy husband’s lucky night with blood. Huh? On a folding iron chair among magnolia blossoms and whistling blackbirds. Assuming that I would or will to avoid what I won’t or am, I thought that what I was taught was what I had sought, inasmuch as any fantastic faith might allow such a comparison; to wit: A man will wait all day for it, in fact. If you can mimic pain. If joy’s your only card — Hurry up, now, hurry!
Fading construction. — And should I kink this vigor casually happy? Arrow glyph signals what I say. Pussy tasks a lucid obtrusion of it. Or talks. Ductility down good social swallows attain that words. Cryptogram of sorts for a crossword possibility. Among high works and idols. Status, if you must, has a way of changing at night. Assault family of truth’s dominant harmony puts paid to six individuals. Did you want to know that? If work’s a compulsion, I saw it in a cultural light. As in cut, not visibility. I dust, in short, and draw. Craft a worm which is as much world as I might lack for sucking it. From all my fair parts obtain what spiritual satisfactions I can. Changing placing casting aging. Strong duty transports to action. Or fury.
Any dim ploy
. — And should I up and ask that man for a cyclindrical roll of tobacco on which to suck? Plaid pants clinch tight rump. Smoothly arc down to mid-calf. High polish goatskin boots softly flop. Oui, I think I shall. Stroll cooly my fiction’s boards. S’il vous plaît, monsignor, but could I bum a cigarillo off you, sir? Thick dusting of kohl limns dark orbits shot through with gold in this sunlight. Non sai, par hasard, un po’ troppo giovan’ para fumar, mi alta poquita dama of narrow hips? How many suns, I ask you, do you in fact harbor in that prodigiously tall vivacious young body of yours, oh fair ragazza of profoundly pliant bosomfruits spilling forth bright and firm to outrival Ishtar’s full moon? Button by ivory button to unhitch that stylish cardigan of charcoal and ash. Actor’s duty commands this agony go on. How many you want I should, my lord? Oh, I don’t know, as many as you must so as not to distort any laws, mi krasivissima nanutchka of such thin though muscular thighs. Right slants slightly too much, I think. Or not. Sign of astigmatism? I am not, you should know, a man who corrupts minors out of grim habit, or flouts good morals and all that, mi muchacha of yon most inviting pudgy mound of crotch. Tant pis, sir, mais, you should know, my lord, that Tixpu laws twist accommodatingly to most any whim, my good man. And what whim is yours, young lady with hair as of thousands upon thousands of microscopic strands of obsidian spun, and loins to match, as my imagination paints it? Or is your cooch still raw, milady? Such dark brows could, though, stand a bit of plucking. Two suborbital scars harm that waifish thrall? Or focus its subadult charm? Initiation ritual’s imprint, no doubt. My whim, sir, is simply a cigarillo to wrap my pouty plump lips around, if you know what I’m aiming at, my lord. Y un foco, as qu’on habla “a light” in this part of la ciudad, sir. I think I do, tan girl of gracious hands. Button by ivory button. And what sort of social valuation will you display in fair transaction for what you ask, mi bonita mariposa of long thumbs sporting twin ophidiform rings of lapis and platinum? Watch him drool. Capisco, signor, that just now tu avais fait an allusion to Ishtar, no? Voilà, donc, my lord. I shall chant for you a stanza, canto, cobla, or branch, call it what you will, sir, of a song that sings of Ishtar’s bard, Dudu, and his many romantic actions with young girls (wink) in various lupanars:
To that man’s hut — to drink ktar again — to sip virgin Ishtar’s
Luscious round fruit, portal scorpion–stung — to strum that ktar’s six
Strings — to play that syrinx — to outchant Ur: Norlia’s wood-strong
Rainbow snail’s virgin’s sons, as am I, Dudu, who sings this song.
Groovy, girl — what’s it from? Patrolius, Ionis Astra
, sixth canto plus four. Bravo, mais, tant pis — I was hoping for a witty spot of political opinion about this sticky situation an ça qua sa trava (in which is found) la población living on your limpid city’s margins as I find you do, figlia mia of lust-inducing thighs. Nos somos, my good knight, todos adorators of Ishtar’s Hand — do you follow, sir? I start at fifty. Où, alors? Mira yon bucolic tapas hut. Out back’s a shack. Con todas las cosas qu’on bisogna para tirar con mucho gusto. I think that, acá, you will find all your satisfactions that I will grant, and I will grant all, if you want to pay for all that I might grant. I say it again: I start at fifty. Do you follow, sir? Most willingly.
Towards a schizomythology of ritual
(X). A small contribution to a philosophy of will to parasitism
. — Will, as a strictly sociophysiological notion, protracts a robust biophysical fact: Plot, as my timorous author, M. S. Strickland, charts it in his How Plot Functions in Works by Young Adult Authors
, functions quantally: All things risky conduct to addiction. Which is to say that, according to V. D. Darkbloom’s Dark Boudoir
, your foxy royal lady’s at bottom but a common slut, sallow and plain. That is, a thing worth striving for brings about addiction in whom or what attains it. From far too many abortions, said F. Kafka in Sylphid Transformations
, was I, Gloria Samsa, born. Rigorously put, addiction is simply wanting to do it again and again and again and again [1
]. You want it, as J. Cortázar took pains to put it plainly in his Ron con Limón
, just as badly as I, Magali Sibylla, do. As for parasitism, I, O. W. Johnson, shall conduct a tri(b)adic clitalysis of its (vulgar) altarity. But your inability to allow your own lust to stir up a sort of mutual satisfaction for all of us willing frat boys, proclaims R. Musil’s protagonist Ulrich to his “twin” sibling Agatha in Fünf bis
(sic) Fünf macht Zwölf
(sic), scissors off want’s wings with compulsory promiscuity. Distally, as far as sociophysiology may riff and rim upon it, parasitism calls forth hunting, war, and prostitution. A propos, H. Kingsmill’s Bordophilia
points out that prostitution plants a thorny kraal round attraction’s gift. Fulcrally [2
], rituals homologous obtain: Womaninity is a story that I, Rosalba Linda, script — this story scripts its own playful laws also — from that man, woman, child, gynandromorph, or whatnot I, G. Kant, in my Laws of Amability
, Laws of Affability
, and Laws of Amiability
, was too afraid to fuck, as H. D. Markson, man with balls and points, was not afraid to point out in his Spinoza’s Brazilian Cousin
: Sacrificial rituals [3
]; rituals of trading, captivity, and labor [4
]; marital rituals. From all my timid author’s abortions — A. Jarry’s Amour absolu
, that is — was I born, barks P. Ubu in his Cocu cocufiant
— harking forward to a slant put priorly forward by F. Kafka’s Slangy Liar
— in a play, Much Ado About Mothing
, by P. Quillard — or was it Lunching at Appalachia’s Most Famous Inns
by C. H. Quilty? Fulcral instantiations of sociophysiological parasitism signify, in a word, a womaninization, or dutiful contracting into our distaff world, of distal activity [5
]. I. Monk, in a brilliant plagiary by anticipation, Your Worldly Playboy’s Daily Iago
, of Victoria Nabokova’s Tolstoy’s Complaint
, posits that any quantal proclivity I, Trajana Shandy, may opt to portray that calls back that black grotto in Tixpu in which I, Mona Dallsworthy, was born again as plural violation’s child drowning among palm thorns and liana fruits, is simply not too much ado about nothing, nothing, oh nothing at all around about midnight’s addiction. You could say that fulcral rituals limit (‘put chains around’) distal (‘wild’ [6
]) actions within a playground of symbolic constraint [7
]. In This World as Compass and Sinking
, D. Udidi paints his total world’s windows with a ball of fist drip drop dripping, drip drip dropping from that wombbloom of schizomythic bat crushing half that skull. I, Parvula Panzoost, was that chunk of bloody flotsam, jots lightly R. Firbank in Vain Mouth
, and I, Tatiana Tartakowski, always brought my own whip to playa Ouida’s flaming hopscotch on a patch of burning gray sand. As for what’s proximal, what’s briny, what’s shiny, what’s to hand, what’s a shy child’s way of hiding from particularly unhappy facts of adult sociophysiological parasitism [8
], that brings to mind within-family sociality sodality sorority, kin–kin conflict pumpkin manakin bananaquit tityra, sibling rivalry sophistry sapphism, and so on [9
]. On a day without cloud or mist you can spot far off on yon Arathu’s horizon’s lip, T. Hamiltonian grants us privy to his thoughts in a buxom squib on back of his book of bibulous bons mots, Tippling In Iagip
, two points of twin volcanic islands. Coral chalk basalt. Fold into focus a splash of local color and handicrafts similar to that formulaic fuck I, M. W. Pugwash, forgot I, O. W. Johnson, was writing about in part four
of this ludict, Divastigations
. Toss down a juicy gigot; toss down, too, that hollow hump of mound. Huh? Gravity’s contribution to civilization’s productions typically puts forth that a man may bring his woman to climax with a joint of hind, and claim as fair swap a stab at a moist pink slash, juicy bald wound, dripping crotch bunny, drooling rabid titgrip, cockgrind of groingrasp, blah blah blah [10
]. But sociophysiology, say C. Kidjaki and A. Raymond in Playacting in Public
, wants to avoid any inapt analogy with gravity: Twofold motif will vary along any constant story’s function: Lust’s tomb paints no falling stars, nor tidal push and pull. On a formulaic ground of archaic vocabulary and cast-off grammatical constructions, blurts B. Vighdan panting moaning groaning gasping out on this humid futon, Axioms of Owlstain
, it’s actually not too difficult, with a dab of stinky varnish and a thick glob of spit, to pass off as old gold a gilt topic’s faux patina. Huh? No, sir, I do not wax loquacious — I’m just a bubbly young back country lass with naught but my own candid smooth quim to husband forth a groat or quoit [11
]. That, folks, was a schizomythic inscription, an upskirt occupation, on how to put off a thirsty jaguar’s fangs, a prowling puma’s claws, a hungry huntsman’s dirk, a rapacious warrior’s bodkin, with nary a sacrificial show of womanly silks, a dainty lick of girlish salt, a bathing suit blowjob, a bosky fuck [12
]. Think about it: A woman, a girl, or two, or four, or six, masturbating, is a most voluptuous vision — but a man? A futon full of Ouidas. A room full of Ouidas. A shack full of Ouidas. A town full of Ouidas. A city full of Ouidas. A country full of Ouidas. A world full of Ouidas. A cosmos full of Ouidas. That’s what I call holy. Origin of worship, and all that. Or no Ouidas at all [13
Gray clouds blossom into rain. — And should I sustain this tidal pool world? I am a soul that squats. Limpid infinity of bright crimson coral. Star urchin snail crab apricot curl of lungfish. Smooth pink scar. Storm approaching.
Making do with what I could. — And should I hunt for food or sport? Waif moaning mock Garbo whip flags display of sacroilial orbits bound. Touch hot wax political, wary mirror guard — it’s your turn. Placating that official’s chairback with a torpid straddling thrust. Why so sobbingly sad, choking pussy fist? At at, at at, at attribution of sin. Angling down, taking off, voicing wildly, flaring up. Hook my froward assumption of guilt, gallant orphan instructor, with your calculating shadow of natural faith. Minimal furnishings. Full moon. Yawning window. Gawking crowd. Tradition commands I hold on tight. Work cultivation’s thrall so madly in this history of body parts. Spark passion accordingly. Don’t ask. I was trying to buy a formalistic vacuum or throw pillow, but wound up crawling across that backroom’s rough wood slats. So as not to complain about my day again, I suck him off and swallow.
Pitiful and vain. — And should I rim this ludicrous variation on pathos and mirrors? Solitary tutor trims a prison ward bunk. Not for lack of what you might call human dignity did that focal habit sting. Slaving away at such a cynical comparison would abolish nothing I couldn’t accomplish on my own. Honorary abomination of cat fur and mucus. Imaginal striation of wasp. From its back buds a dry disk of arm or wing. Such limpid soul bubbling out through that hollow tumor. Coils of saffron pus work this happy condition’s ground, afflict infatuation with gravity, accord fiction its cast and color. Circular scars. Crisp wad of hair. Bloody scalp. Quit showing off your thighs, cunt. Charcoal viridian ruby gold.
Without vanity. — And should I dishonor this loving divinity’s fruit, I’ll try not to look away from passion or from pain. Gray sky pouts, that fangy bitch. Moon wilts against a crust of vomit. Quim liquid starling song.
Capricious punctuality. — And should I vacuum mock approval lightly? Suspicion’s consolation bursts from a kind of pupa or chrysalis. Parasitic fungus. Found trauma’s shadow a bit too maudlin, did you now? Loving paralysis. Not from anything you did, mind. Just not my fault, nor his. Poplar winks in wind. Flashy silk moth lurks in that hollow oak’s burnt out cavity.
Assuming that I will to avoid what I won’t. — And should I look for maturation’s approach? Optimism outflanks it. Too abstract for a hasty stripping down or off. Ugly old man drunk and limp against my back. Go gaming for it, girl. Any sick thing for a languid undulation.
Past anything good or bad. — And should I insist you follow a plastic translation? That trashbag’s not a symbol, mi amor, though up it spirals in symbolic action almost diabolically comic. Call it miscommunication. Form’s conjuration or conjunction books a party of fabulous crows or mob. To play lack for attraction’s what I’m paid for. Poorly or worldy, wiltingly or vain.
Almost similar. — And should I bluff a high cult’s uncanny flaring up of ritual? Typical glyphic conflation constructs classic confabulation on that volcanic island’s cliff. Hummingbird and jaguar, orchid and alligator, wasp and moth, woman and man, scorpion and shark. All cast in a plurality of gods’ myriad polymorphous molds of lava. Promiscuous trafficking of all things cast-off or charming. Occasional attacks of tribalistic brutality. Ruttish tribadism (call it sapphistry). Youthful scarification (call it initiation or growth or maturity). So many tourists and pilgrims, sunburnt or dark, swarming up this pyramid’s sharp stairs. Is that what you call a profound insight? Salt lick on a goat path.
Owlish warning with moral associations. — And should I omnify what I forgot I was talking about? In this, of all things, I might occupy my thoughts with what you could wish for or worship or didn’t want known. Magnanimous common slut.