The and the and a. Architectonics braised in serum, sauced in lymph. How much would you pay for my sphincter. That’s not enough. Fucks whenever you want—priceless. But my pit hairs are on sale—spectacular bargain. For free girl disciplines her body—corporate loan—pops cheri. Smoking hot babes make bestest mothers. Spunk punks. Junk mandates exchange rates. The “sex which is not one” equals only one worth screwing. I am silly Faggot indulging in rubbish. Flame with me. Luxuriate in these ashes. Let’s redo totality’s makeup. As long as there are sexes firstly humans don’t stand chance. Inhumanity runs rampantly correctionist. Limbs—ninety carat knockers—locks of blonde hair.
Cusp, contusion. Luculent grease. I raged at that ragdoll. Raggedly cut cerise. If there were plums I would have poked them. Fruit-smeared dermis. Fosse —furnace. Stench of burnt threads. Nude stunt. They called and called and I caved. Bats unfurled their velvet cling. This means matter of hazel, witch. Water ouzel, ditch. Plump ice. Vise that pumps, sputters. Lurks in etymologies of mothers.
I tamped their etiologies, trampled diagnostics. Pinned pupas to my craw, caroled. Felt circulation shrink. Shrugged my fur, furtive stole, stellar lace of laceration. Sugars molded to me anyways. Memory gave way to aphasia—rose tumble aphid wings, wrangling membranes moot, corollas mucoid. I shouted some he and shimmied from flume to flume, oil of soil—salty. Titrate tingling tongue—iatrogenic.
Mirror, miracle. Irony and iron oxides. Lymph nodes strop. I stoppered I in cells knit—nattered—narrated by master gone to pieces, gibbous jurisprudence, jealous gells with jumpstarters for spilled milt.
Silver—leaf. Liver—levity. And when that interior turned deafening, carpals took over narration. And when his veins were transposed to her gardens, dictionaries called them runnels. Sexes danced helices—courted their coveting. But this decade has learned to let go so they’re retro. Then they’re back to the future. Boys are boys. Girls are—wave on wave of. Off every chart. Ideogram for heart—foreclosure. Her rights all wrong. Oh hell no—this ain’t hegemony’s song. Every chord stomps. Frisks his larynx.
Girls are like Gay men. Gay men aren’t man at-all. Bonkers if you ask this flame—throws its chords—lassoes some John Doe eyed baller. He looked at horizon’s harvest moon—roe popped out his eyes. Retinal nerves slit all available spectrums. Crass spectrometer. Dusty lashes crash harbinger. Thus waist requires cinch so barely boobs pucker. Motherfucker echoes, marbles cochlea. Mother purls. In division vision can be verified. But flyest ice forgoes.
And then they rolled her stage away. Good, better, butter. Now she can devote to her lover. He licks her as bitches do their whelps. When he finishes, she breathes down his throat—grabs knob and massages shoulderblades. He exhales himself into creek, whorl and—creepy. At dawn bed empties. Sleep is never theirs. Capital coerces. Genital obligations.
With rubber on—Little Death. Denied heir, spared heiress. Freshly sated, bone softens. She braises it back plumply. He pumps her mouth. Then they kiss. Baby girl glisters his five o’clock shadow. She licks her off. His genes dream little man in tux. His verdant accounts narrate future acquisitions.
Age is not just a number and he demands younger. In another room, another country, tears. The future of his company crunches numbers, numbed to abolished mother. In her new Siberia fists fly. Master Narratives—spectacularly successful forgeries—must die. But they can’t. Capital keeps them on life-support. Periods of blood, of let, oubliette and sport. Cut. Spored.
I cut: cut eye—magnified
Blood. Cambric pleats. Roses. Spume and
Rosettes. Thermometer tantrum, telos—anther. Patiently on his
Stem, haptic spindle. Reality skirls. Boys cry and girls scent their wrists
then come. Fuck you
Heterosexuality. Facefuck for that and the and them—men after men. Rod
Redacts God. Grim reaps. Peristalsis steeps its bowels. Tactful trolls from
Erection. Could he be bigger bitch? Could jigger
Juggle drunkly as her histamines? For most parts, as gender bends hegemony
Digs its digits in, intersubjective boojum. Even with pronouns left out or
switched, cunt’s specter sprawls, drawls in our ears, twitchy wigs jigged—
Are you sick of this. No—sick from this. I am. But it’s always in style. And I adore style. If only ‘twere my stylus. Oh well—I’m Gay. Am perpetually on the out and out. So this page needs twat not boy. Apologies. This page needs uterus, vagina, clitoris. Apologies—this page needs be more than some box to jack off in. God, girls are so fucked. Glamour shot! Nah, junk for the curb. Hey-hey, Mick Jagger! If ever gutter were worth it!
She has no belly; she’s gutted. Well at least we can see her gripes my Lesbo slit. I’ve gone agro again, damn! ‘Flame it—flame it honeypot,’ says my myelin sheathe. ‘My-my’ mouths Father-Fucker, ‘what have we got here.’ ‘Ding-dong daddy schlong, you sound like a Faggot. It’s not hot—it’s not cool. But I need all the tools I can get.’