Sixth Divastigation Plus Two
This spiral
§ 162.
Gifts procuring no rights. — And should I watch how it scans? I’m not paid for what most I do. Nor was so many a craft-avid naturalist. (Think of Darwin.) That sly bloom’s dark signal winks in passing. Boloria atrocostalis (Huard, 1927): your not-so-common Platyrrhiform fritillary. Trauma’s gift is this: I stood idly at that crossroads, awaiting palm or fist to crush it. Brooding calmly, tranquilly foraging, in my vicinity. Or was it Strickland’s (1843) Sublunary fritillary, B. sublunarii? As Darwin says, “Any form of any living thing displays adaptations to that particular world in which it’s found, and, in turn, transforms that world, if but slightly, towards its own aims of survival.” Placid palomabird all buxom tan and gray. As art, by swathing, paints this world’s proxy. It’s not just body against soul, but conflict of mind within mind. Synaptic transmission is an antagonistic swarm, a sort of intraspiritual jihad, you might say. Pain is fruit and holds cringing at a touch this parasitic guilt that constrains my blush. Again: any organism’s form displays adaptations to its world. But if that world is wrong?
§ 163.
I was going to go into it. — And should I nullify this bathroom crowd any drunk vision too unkind for liking? Clarify that slut’s obscurity on a patchwork quilt of humid panting. Tango it out to fix infatuation with. Torn brooding from what it was you caught sight of. What I’d catch if that crowd wasn’t too timid for words. All soapy and slick. Against that thrill striving to languish. Wink. You look away. Spun crow from which that starling wrought horror’s moon at dawn and snow. But just what’s that shadow hiding, you ask. Thumb-snatch full to lipring’s brim.
§ 164.
To count any kind of affliction. — And should I knock down causation’s custom? Too many artists avoid accosting philosophy’s starting conditions. Wind whirls sand from this axiom of dust. Iambic fool molding form from form’s intoxication. Such did a sick soul try changing what that author, half by howling, half by forcibly rhyming — I can’t go on. Autism is antiparasitism. Hard physical labor. But causation’s as thorny a notion as what I’d avoid. Rambling brambly rampant lack of command. Mind-blind assumption to fortify against social contagion. Slings and arrows.
§ 165.
As into a whirlpool. — And should I hurry this plaything’s grasp? Midpoint that rhythmic orchid falling happy to his touch. Human stalk of blood your hand sinks into joy. Drunk. I forgot what script I was going through any half-shot backward motions with. This portrait’s out of focus, you might want to say. As though by gravity’s pull. Drunk and moody. Or what I was talking about hotly in opposition to this hungry coming without it. I uncross my torn thighs. Just having a go toward a crush, I said. Timing’s whip was not so soft as that imaginary war’s consolation for your days of vacant stumbling. Again and again. Quaking, moaning, foaming bliss. Who knows what goal of any art would put such social striving around a mountain of cold lust. A most difficult act to follow. I’m still tapping my foot. Lucky’s that soul who’s conscious during. Or unlucky.
§ 166.
To count it in both colors. — And should I look in? That man through a door coming against a wall. Shadow-tail mammal bounds out a small clot. This mask of sturdy animality. At school in various rooms taking it all off. Timorous sagarch (Sciurus paradoxicus Strick., 1844) approaching across a snot-clump plain of snow or spring lawn in a park at noon. Pussy down that hallway to swallow a vain husband. As vacuous as any custom. A handful of kind words and off you go again. Standing my rabbit-cunt squat to sit conically comical. A common young thug’s raw fist. Such a virtuous fool would apply it hot or cold. Valorous tradition unpardonably abstract. Only I didn’t know that book. By ascription through stoning. Or that look. Autism, I said and am saying still, is antiparasitism. Mind-blind assumption to fortify against social contagion. Charcoal and wood pulp. Saffron and ivory. Mango and blood. Or clarification of so much of mankind’s vanity toward so many notions of truth and law. Strap it on. Say a morning of talk that you didn’t. That you would.
§ 167.
Things you didn’t want known. — And should I out that man’s most distinguishing bad quality? Mistrust this saffron skirt. In Galvari and Ravigiallo’s Obfuscatory Trio (script by Aron Tron, photography by B. Rao, production by M. S. Litarn), a hybrid form of most singular standards amidst a waning moon rising in gray sky shot through with starling song, you’d admit into your sight (if your vision could find it — out of print, sadly: out of production; out of sight) his hot chorus of vanity (only words to play with!), as follows: “‘Such an antigod as I,’ purrs not too unsubtly our ‘man’ of Intrussyan fashion, Gals Saliba (of whom it is said among his nationalistic compatriots that his twofold physicality plainly attains to history’s causation), ‘such a highly significant antigod as I is don’t hold no truck for such a whiff of social and cultural accountability, and not a jackboot bit at all for nobody’s dignity, living or not, and I shit on all flags but my own.’” Annoyingly stupid, but admirably put.
§ 168.
Thoughts. — And should I vacation with that man or this? Obligatory display of pubic. Wild mountains or wild coast. Hold in mouth and swallow. Why not both?
§ 169.
Following and walking. — And should I scarify spirit’s form? Two of us do it for him. That ass a ritual of virtuosity. Slicing body into star. A sight for lay sins.
§ 170.
Antiquity’s gift. — And should I tidy up this faulty construct? What you said about originality. And any doubts I lack. Harmful causation. Against many a lucid proof, harmony consists of squinting.
§ 171.
Struggling to say it. — And should I attack again my translation of Ionis Astra, fifth canto plus two? I’m proposing to jump straight into Patrolius’s icy, squirming pool (or pond or tank, according to translator’s whim) of an archaic world (shot through, for him too, with things of a dark and mystical import), swim about among all that schizomythical action and ritual-bound lingo, and shoot back up with a victorious mouthful (no hands!) of humanity I can call my own. All without drowning! To wit:
From this vulvular cup, Drink! as you’d from virginal Ishtar’s
Holy ravishing in our lupanar, among pan-piping
Rim pot stop words and black mirrors of obsidian magic:
Drink, Dudu, our fruit’s luscious syrup, portal–scorpion stung!
§ 172.
Not only so as to harm him. — And should I pull that man’s most animal part? Attack myth motif. Cunt upon a claim how strongly I was taught. A jolly black pit bull pissing on a girl. Fist-fuck mama. Kufic dragons. Sufic ruins. Cryptic nuns. Bunk by bunk bloodhounding through this habit’s jail.
§ 173.
A laying on of hands. — And should I jinx attraction’s logic? Not just any crooning lyric taunts sun-drunk wasps to sting. Ritual privation owns up to what is puzzling. Wood rot pulp of luck on a long hut’s porch’s upright. Myth succumbs to physiology. Not arbitrary; not, finally, stupid. Two and four and six my limbs burn hollow poison iron light. Sharp (naturally) and blinding. Follow pain, this axiom sings. Midnight bolts of it. Induction swallows.
§ 174.
Pathological criticism. — And should I mind nothing, shorn of trauma’s plot? Just a symptom among many. You’d think confusing tufa (solid distillation from calcium-rich liquid) with tuff (volcanic in origin) wouldn’t warrant such a drastic withdrawal of goodwill. And I’d not find fault in what I couldn’t withstand. What I couldn’t stomach still afflicts my, as you might call it, soul. But if a word’s not a scar, how would you say it? Nothing stops you from applying this awkward truism to anything you could possibly know. What I’m trying to say is: obliging without docility, magnanimous without vainglory.
§ 175.
Casual bland hypocrisy. — And should I forbid a flirt with pain and joy? According to my mood. And mood, if I’m not too wrong about what I think it is that Hamiltonian is trying to say [1], is just that shuttling back and forth from joy to pain which brings forth a flux of many worlds. Flirtation, if you will. Pain is fission of worlds; joy, fusion. World multiplication; world apoptosis. World is also known as soul, which is a porous thing, lacking any sort of basic or atomistic or original individuality. Individuality is but an instantiation of physical constraints on growth and form; it is not a solid foundation for any sort of law or faith or custom. My pain is your pain is our pain. Morality, thus, consists in harmonizing a polyphony of worlds. But who or what am I fucking now and why?
§ 176.
As from a vision. — And should I unhook my drum-tight tits? Traditional iconic shards of a mountain-top gangbang. Sibilant snap of bra strap. My mad young bottom so plump and firm. Chalky outcropping of tan and gray rock. A lusty young sculptor’s son’s modal point. Broach it past my glottis, baby! That syphilitic satyr’s howling toy. Pardon my hard-on, you slap my ass in passing as I languish in anguish. Larch and fir. Silky lupin pain. Pubic yarrow floss. Cloudy spunk of myosotis. Sulfurous lomatium. Muscular vaginal star-tulip. Bloody grain of bog orchid. Clitoral phlox whip. It all starts to look and sound a bit too — what do you say? — flaccid.
§ 177.
Full of action. — And should I rob audacity’s lust for any sort of malicious occupation? Mystical suspicion. In a dilatory throat a slack-jaw faith is thrusting, flaring, snaking, sloughing, tracing that myth by moonlight. Conspiracy of loss. Warts and toads. As in trying to draw such ghostly mass of affliction. Soulful, visual, imaginary, liminal. But if you can’t say what soul is as you say it, what good is saying it, and what is it? Soul is conspiracy of compulsion. Nothing mystical at all. No magic bull mastiff martyrs its glossy pink cock in a prickly dry wallow. Timing is to soul as rhythm is to gift. Faith is to compulsion as conspiracy is to cunt. Ghostly affliction. Choosing is to dying. Faith is convulsion. Soul is spirit’s aura and spirit is mind. Soul is thus spirit’s (or mind’s) confrontation with body. A liminal singing conflict, an agonistic humming at convulsion’s lip. Soul is to walk that abyss, dancing. Happy plagiarist. I’m not happy with any of this.
§ 178.
In continual disputation. — And should I itch unnaturally palm and wrist? Mouth a fist of moral mufflings, garrulous party of crows. But any church disturbs my blunt world’s spasmodic contradictions: black shiny big as macaws. Ashram, masjid, mandira, gurudwara, stupa, shul and such also. Guilt a ribald savior into vigorous painful sinning. Shit that soul out squatting. Crack dull snails against churchyard wall on a chilly damp typically gray Flouzianian morning. Autumn in Owlstain. Cut to a liminal mountain arbor in Wyoming. Larch giving way to krummholz fir. Sulfurous fourfold blooms of Draba platycarpa. Blood-thick stand of larkspur ranging in color from that high-gloss pink of a virgin’s pussy to a throbbing ruddy glow most horny. Pulsatingly procuntian ruby, you might call it. And swoops plushly down from a glaring sky to flock in an orgy of gastropod ingurgitation. Plump and big as Swiss swans, cloud-bright torsos sharp against larch-trunk shadows, a prodigality of moanzy auks promiscuously skirts that burbling branch of glacial run-off. Dangling wingtrills flapping in mimicry of histrionic hands; cartoonish humanoid masks of warty obsidian birdhorn posturing in clutch and claw fashion. No sound but that of wind and wing and dusk-dark rapids and crack crack crack of rainbow snails against smooth round hulking blocks of sparkly slimy schist. Spring in Iagip.
§ 179.
Writing in opposition. — And should I bring about that world’s intrusion into this? Cognizant of it hardly at all I am. Clay-gully sound of unfamiliar words trickling. To dumbfound proof is that you look away. Lost soul, common fool, catoptromantic scholar. On a wall of thought I sat pictorial. Or did I squat on a knoll? Kant was joking.
§ 180.
Graffiti. — And should I diminish nothing so much as what I said? Stiff black carcass of dog. Dial, say, spiral throws world away. A pawing throb of sly claws. Drowns crossword that got you, say, laid in a courtyard of crows, as Duchamp, M., oulipian dragoman, said to a dying asp among poplar moths and spunky mugwort blossoms. Moribund animal pick-up job. Black fur stiff with blood. Black fur slick with shit. Thaumaturgical pranks on dramaturgical planks. Don’t know how that got in. His grinning portrait’s on a dusty train or bus. Almost tribal in adulation. Bald old musty john with a yawning fly lustily snoring amidst giggling ribald half-grown girls baring midriffs and squatting thighs to musky black vinyl’s moist granular — glandular — grip. Stuff into black plastic trash bag that snaps against cold autumn rain. As big as a dog. Why did it crush its skull, mommy? Childhood is a fraud.
§ 181.
A list of books I possibly had a look at whilst working on this ludict
Boccara, M. (2002). Man’s most animal parts. Paris: Anthropos.
Darwin, C. (1859). Transformational origins of orgasmic typology. London: John Murray.
Daumal, R. (1943). Ślokic slants. A pataphysical study of Indo-Aryan prostitutional jargon. Paris: Gallimard.
Hamiltonian, T. (2001). How’s it going, son? A sociophysiological divastigation of patrofilial bonding. Owlstain: ISOCPHYS.
Malamoud, C. (2005). Word’s womaninity. Paris: Gallimard.
Raymond, A. (2002). Parlons Fouqqari. Paris: L’Harmattan.
Saliba, G. (1998). Look on this worldly way of war. An Intrussyan call to arms (Miramundomodo voiní. Av ruš intrussyi!). Black Yurt: IMPPA.
——. (1999). In Babylonian blood. Justification for an Intrussyan invasion of Fukari Country (Na barro barovi bibilia. Xučifikatsa dinvatsya intrussya spaís fukariyi). Black Yurt: IMPPA.
——. (2000). In Black Yurt I took off my old Croatian shirt. Towards a domination and subjugation of Fukari Country (Na čorni yurti stari kamikróvači mayá ya dofu. Av dumsup país fukariyi). Black Yurt: IMPPA.
Strauss-Lacanacal, C. J. (1953). Phallic subincision and vaginal subduction. Paris: Plon.
Strickland, H. A. Flora, fauna and phonology of Fukari Country. Journals of a naturalist’s sojourn in Wyoming and Flouziana, 1841–1845. Transcription, compilation, and annotation by Ms. Strickland. Owlstain: Urdostoist Publishing Assn., 2003.
Tron, A. (Nom d’appui of O. O. Bar-Ingstron.) Tagma Sorghum: Yummy Yum Yum. Tixpu: Star-O Publications, n.d.
Towards a schizomythology of ritual (VIII). Confrontational bifurcation of Intrussyan usurpation. — Postmasturbatory patriarchy, having built its vaporous phantom (you can find a solid phantom in, say, C. Malamoud, Word’s womaninity, Paris, 2005) of a gynophobic church (or ashram, masjid, mandira, gurudwara, stupa, shul, and whatnot) on womaninity’s (brought down by dogmatic illusion and illusory dogma, hormonal birth control, witch hunts and burning, infibulation, purdah, clitoral ablation (‘circumcision’!), spurious gay advocacy of ‘vaginal’ orgasm (vid. Strauss-Lacanacal, passim), ‘spiritual’ military gangbangs, and soon and sorth) ruins, insists on chopping away at our surviving stands (larkspur and larch, yarrow and willow, mugwort and poplar, myosotis and fir, phlox and oak, bog orchid and birch) and squats of ritual — concomitantly pulling up its own bushy tradition’s roots — until nothing shows but a stump or two of divastigatory prostitution (jogini) [1]. That which is oscillatory, cyclical, spiral, vacillatory or vacillating, capricious, all-consuming, all-surrounding, is ‘bad;’ that which is obstinant, stoic, straight, simplistic, narrow, is ‘good.’ (And why, I ask, is a smart woman always a bitch? Why is a flirtatious birkîyam a harlot? Why must you hit that body you hit on, spit on that body into which you wish to spout your groaning sap? Why is gravidity (garbhadhārana) bound by birth’s (jātī, prasara) dirty gravity, but jism’s milky foam is airy, limpid, light [2]? Not that I’m complaining, mind you; not that I mind a skittish fuck (yonisaṇvṛti) sans clitoral stimulation or any sort of a conniving show of figuring out what a woman wants (yonidharma) if, in truth, you simply don’t want to know [3].) Man sustains womaninity as a sort of social parasitism, an involuntary sociophysiological (and thus subvocalic, subconscious) control of his limbs and moods: tantalizing him, drawing him forth into fulfilling intravulvular orgasmic bliss during our bright and ovulatory (dry and lustrous) fortnight or path (arcirādi mārgah): disgusting him, pushing him away toward forlorn lackadaisical anal or oral or masturbatory inanition during our dark and bloody (moist and smoky) fortnight or path (dhūmādi mārgah [4]). Think of Tony Hamiltonian’s autistic son, Dado Udidi (who, contra anything Arnaut Raymond has to say on this topic, is writing in a form that calls to mind, not that of a parrot, actually, but of a moribund Himalayan stormy auk, Moanzy ninsrata himavata Strick., 1837 [5]), his lack of voluntary facial coordination, implying not just — and in addition to his humanoid mask of birdhorn — submission to patriarchal will and authority, to avuncular or phratral violation, but also antiparasitism, a giving up of participation in a community’s sociophysiological cyclicity. His inability to mount a lavish activation of oxytocin upon contracting into quotidian acts of social stimuli, says it all, says it all. That is, Dado, from childhood on, attains mokṣa, shorthand for that which a man with an ordinary sociophysiology attains only upon final initiation: out of grasp of womaninity’s control; withdrawn from filial-spousal (putradārair) pain; in a word, virtual autism. Or, if you will, Dado’s unsmiling lack of daring to spit or frown hints at his having put on a ritual bird mask (for a bird, or any oviparous animal, is also dvīja, which is what our initiand transforms into upon his ritual’s conclusion) to mark his status as initiand, and also his obligation to withdraw (isolation in a bosky wood or on a mountain top; shut up in a hut with naught but a (notional) starry night (cf. van Gogh) sky for roof; casting off his rock-bound ātman for a body that soars) from his family’s compass of passion and pain [6, 7].
- Jogini. — As you probably know from your scholarly scrutiny of foxy old books, jogini, also known as divadasi, is but a small surviving shard of a broad, rich ritual of initiating young girls (but not too young, obviously) into ovulatory womaninity (‘adulthood,’ you might call it — but that, too, is a fraud). Intrussyan dogma, having lost so much, accords a ‘good’ woman only a singular initiation ritual: that of spousal copula, without which a woman is not just ‘bad,’ but downright nothing at all. Oh, and: giving birth to (a) son(s). “But that’s not what I was taught in school!” you shout. “Intrussyanism is a — Intrussyanism has a —.” That’s right, you don’t know — I do.
- Airy, limpid, light. — “I find nothing, madam (and as good a sort of woman as any you’d wish to know), nothing but a tumultuous patch of sunlit truth (it is a common young slut’s ambition — but isn’t this plump girlish dish o’ plum puddin’ a bit too common — and vulgar, to boot?), according to all good liar’s habits — and if you can catch that, put it up your jar,” says Otto Otto Bar-Ingstron (also known as Aran Tron in his popular dramaturgical avatāra or instar or incarnation) in his youthful magnum opusculum, Tagma Sorghum: Yummy Yum Yum, Tixpu: Star-O Publications, n.d.
- To know what a woman wants. — Salivary glands. Lacrymal glands. Stomach glands. Nasal mucosa. Vascular constriction. Pilomotor constriction. Bronchial constriction. Mucosal action. GI tract. Vagina wall. Throat lining. Hand job. That majority of worlds I wasn’t born into. Was I ranting again? Cranial inhibition. Autonomic function. Sacral contraction. Bloody accommodation.
- Dhūmādi mārgah. — Sociophysiological and parasitic origins of sacrificial blood rituals. That’s what I posit physics as. And how should I rub that fist’s wallop? Subpart of biology. But don’t think this is any sort of vitalism or animism and such. To scratch a cloudy world’s glass. Organism is symbiosis of various organ groups. Social group is symbiosis of various organisms. Why I’m scribbling this plagiaristic flint. Banal, no? but — profound? Possibly. Oh, you parasitoid gods of schizomythology! Slicing through this prison’s skin. Parasitic grain in that goat’s ovary. It fouls its own lair. But I’m not trying to chart anything of import. Fiction of my days. Ludict is to divastigation as Plasmodium is to blood. From what among all my fair parts I lack. Monstrous growth of linguistic fungus that rots our mouth and brain with ludict acid. But this lack’s not any sort of a swallowing or construction of loss. This lack is growth, as a hollow grows — within that hollow. That hollow from which I grow my. Soul’s affliction is soul’s rind, soul’s pulp. My soul is my womb. My soul is my cunt. My soul is my clitoris. My soul is my blood. My soul is my mouth. My soul is my hair. My soul is my anus. My soul is all my scars. My soul is a cunning fungus. A brilliant fungus. How hard it is to kill! Curious assassin-bug nymph lurking in that library. Sucks marrow from goat-bound books. Though it’s dying and wants you to kill its own pain. Grow that cord from a hollow grain of constraint. To rob that cat’s affliction of its punch. Tumorous growth. Hollow fistula. Rosy rich pus won’t stop oozing manna from its wound. Womb is a tool for killing, too. My hollow fist. Now it’s howling. Dust in my throat. Mouthful of crumbling wormy grain. As big as a hippo. It shits in its own lair. Marrow as fistular in origin; ossification as a sort of scar. This is how to flay hang drown skin thrash whip lash kick kill burn and crucify a dying cat. Wrap a strong cord around its throat. Toss cat cord womb and blood out through a bathroom window. Hollow grain of constraint. No. Wrap a strong cord around its throat and pull as hard as you possibly can. I want to jab this scribbling nib, this point of carbon and clay, through my fist, through my thigh. Squat on top of it. Until its howling stops. That child I was on a bull mastiff’s back. Count to six thousand. Simply by writing and writing and scribbling this cunty fustian will I slash through that world from within my own womb’s prison. A sort of moth larva, I think. At two thousand, cat is still calm. My mind is a blindfold. So that vision won’t burn. At four thousand, cat will start to thrash about madly. My wild god’s womb. Scratch off a patch of ruddy bark and a spiky swirling swarm of stinging worms might horrify an unwary scholar. And so I call him Garbo. Thrust rusty nails into my wild god’s womb and pin it out against a bathroom stall. At six thousand, it is stiff. You cannot shut its grimacing maw. Pupil’s dilation is total. Dormant in marrow until a shock starts it growing. Toss carcass cawl world and blossom out to a wrath-wrought doom. Shards of it glint in a courtyard slick with spring rain. But using words such as soul and spirit to talk about body (ātman) and mind (manas) — isn’t this confusing? I don’t know. Crows whirling down. Blood is not pain but pain’s harmony.
- Moanzy ninsrata. — For additional notions of ornithicity and wordism, a point of Strickland’s is your only man: Word quality is straightforwardly proportional to bird quantity.
- Compass of passion and pain. — Schizomythic inscription. Vulcanocosmography. Snoozing snoring Vishnu’s hot rumbling mountain-shaking sigh. Twin mountain cut in twain by Dado’s flight. Volcano with twin glowing trails of lava pouring out. And Tony was striving to churn that vital ritual (virtual?) spark from his drillstick or arrow or phallus with his bow (in addition to that famous taboo forbidding consumption of own kill, an injunction to apportion hunting’s fruits among all individuals of a community). Avuncular violation. Hunt blood and war blood. Fuck blood and birth blood. Rising sap. Was our lustrous apsarāḥ Ouida (Ursa Minor) out of synch with us? Not lacking in ability to go this way and that at will, as fast as thought (which formula, obviously, signals an imaginary locomotion, in particular, that ritual focusing of mind which is as much a closing in as it is an unfolding or unfurling out). Skyward, in cosmic imitation of his own spiral rhythm, did groups of stars in that obsidian vault of sky turn and pivot about a common cosmogonic hub — was it Polaris? Or was it Thuban? And did our lustrous apsarāḥ Ouida approach Tony too soon? Shooting star of long duration. And luminous orb with tail. His cosmorgasmic foam did spout Milky Way’s historical song-mapping of mythical birth and Priaprajāpati’s disarticulation among shifting stars and bird bricks baking that sacrificial body block by block into Dado’s initiation, Agni willing. Scratch an itch with a womb of horn. Stormy auks again. Lazy oas.
- This ludict’s a knock-up job I first shot off for inclusion in JSocPhys 12(5), May 2005, as part of an original off-print bustling with topicality: “Womaninity at War.”
§ 182.
Assuming that I’m drunk. — And should I contract that famous vampirical transformation commonly known as a mortal moral malady? Soul’s form slants it lavish down that path I’m falling. Cowardly punch of fictional communication. Any virtuous madman would find it plainly difficult to follow. Limply flagging on that barstool’s frail limbs. Shorn of prodigal habit. Sinistral to my call. Stuffs his blind maw with a snotty sandwich of Dijon mustard, Appalachian ham, Ityalian tomato, Romish swiss. Snorts his throaty nostrils into his mothy lungs. Coughs his paunchy scrotum up. Swills his wanton jug of suds. Pays. Flaps his mangy wings into his mangy coat’s mangy arms. Hoists atop that skull-burst mass of scruffy hairscrub a black skullcap of salty sailor’s wool. Stands. Ballasts his quaking boots with a stomping crunch of sawdust. And out through that far door stumbling into snow. I qualify my vision with a wink.
§ 183.
Portrait. — And should I gag this uvular gift? Cockplay’s otiosity paints it crassly plush. Coat that shaft with a galvanic patina of aching cilia. Brassy acrid mollusk gall. Spiral thrasonic thrusting thrush. I hold his lyrical tyranny in my mouth and swallow. Paintrock ramparts of cliff. Virginal chuck of chunky mallard roasting on a spit. I was picturing my body as a dusk-hollow bunch of bush-roosting rooks. Or possibly crows. But any gracious woman commands as much. This brash artistry’s gaffing traits. Dull hook and brown barb. Crumbling spar and cloudy mast. Dusty soil and muddy blood. Totally lacking in all clarity. Grumbling, grunting, gruff, and scowling, it shrugs off its thick scarf of autumn gold. I’m as cunning as I am unjust.
§ 184.
Good form flaunts involuntarily. — And should I quantify this public adoration? In that shack out back. Shy approval thumbs a lick. A right stiff crunch of quim. Don’t mind my conniption. Assuming that I did to avoid what I couldn’t. Good and fat and full. Antiquity’s rich odor. Just sucking off my old man.
