When you’re a girl, everyone wants your P❌SSY—Part 2

Return to P❌SSY—Part 1


I Throw My Pennies / Into the Wishing Well

Following the rhythm up and down my crystal pipe.

Sitting (almost lying) on the sidewalk.

Looking up at the sky, feeling the breeze on my arm hairs. Stimulating the follicles. Hearing the drone of a van rolling up the hill. A new car for this area—our cul-de-sac doesn’t see much traffic and I’m appreciating the day, moment by moment, that is what my dad told me to do.

I remember him as precious. I remember a smart man and a caring man and a gentle man. I don’t remember much else.

And the van swoops up with their your parents are sick routine, their come with me and we’ll save your daddy routines and swoop! they upped and picked me up off the floor—that yard where I was day dreaming—and the next thing you know I’m passed out in the back seat having drunk their special serum mixed with Coke™️ to make it all ever so much more palatable.

Ever so much sweeter.

Ever so much more of an easy thing to do.

They eased me into it, rather than slice and dice me, my mental property, and ultimately my largest organ (the skin) which they could have gone hog wild on. Could’ve closed down my entire (once upon a time) solution.

They could have come at me rogue-deep unleashing drones which we sent to fight our wars. The animals and the robots?—They started killing themselves. Unleash an impossible argument about drones ending their own lives to save the rest of us.

Drones throwing themselves over the sides of cliffs.

They are under intelligent control.

And am I thankful?—Yes. For this—Yes. Am I worried drones are going to take over my job? I can’t wait long enough for this to happen: For robots to be enough like humans that they abduct us to fuck us. We are the starships in Galaga waiting to be abducted by that mothership—The only down side is: Will there be enough space on that conical cloud coming down over all of our eyes.

I already died once. It changed the shape of my ribs. My xiphoid process. Every organ covered under the cage. Protected, now. And aren’t we on a different planet. They were strangers to the neighborhood (alien). They were strangers to me and I a stranger to them. Bionical tactics (abduction). Tales from the Duck. When they turned to look in the back seat they saw my eyes which burned red and so much horrified these men they had to turn away. Look at the road. I think we have a live one here. (Live if you look in my eyes.) (Live when you squeeze my hand.) (Live broadcasting down Santa Monica Lane.) So live they had to blindfold my eyes. And even that didn’t work. They pulled over the car and said to me: “Alien girl! Cease your eye language!! Stop trying to control me!—You have no psychic powers!! You have no teleportation. Not a puppy on your bike. Not even a bike (if I did have a bike I never would have been taken by them).

I wanted to do sexual experiments on him and his partner but he got to me first.

Damn. I got played.

Played right off the edge of the playground.

I got played so hard—so hard. And the initial play was so entirely non-sexual. So entirely non-sex that I fell for that. Fell for that so hard I hit my head. I must have lost my senses. Lost them so hard in that fear for my father’s ok(ness)—his health—his happiness.

That I simply fell for it.

That’s all it takes. Trust your fellow man and get fucked!—That should be a warning on the side of a carton called life.

Then they quickly moved me into the house I have mentioned. The basement. The first floor. One bedroom. One bathroom. Belts sewn onto the side of the mattresses. Always that slight smell of shit. I’m supposed to be happy with my one bed? One roomie? Sex four times a day (sometimes seven) and I didn’t even know what sex was, back then—just pain ‘cause I was too small for foreign penises. Just a time I was told to Keep it quiet!

Keep it quiet keeps the beatings to a minimum.

By the time I left that house I didn’t even feel pain in my ass or upper legs—they had been beaten too often—and I’m proud to say my P❌SS had a minimal amount of numbness (applied) to my hair and neck where I was squeezed (too) hard (too) tight (too) damaging my throat so I feel pain with every swallow.

Swallows twice. Clears the main glob of cum out my mouth. The rest will take toothpaste and even that doesn’t get it. Not even mouthwash. Not spice. Not beer. When I kiss you inside my mind my mouth tastes like cum. Not yours. Some joe reflexively spurting in my mouth (all over) (all up and down) every tooth, every gum infiltrated by Seal Team Six shot me through with automatic weaponry designed by some PhD holing up in his workshop making millions up on the hill but making dimes down here on the street making pennies in the third world.

Strap a small girl into her bed and infiltrate her P❌SSY with your wet fingers stick it in as deep as your finger can go all the way to the back of me. You’re setting screws for your picture of me you wouldn’t want to set me improperly you wouldn’t want for me to move.

You wouldn’t want to mis-tool me.

To scrape me and stretch me.

To rape me and retch me.

Your abduction of her is like an alien sexual examination. Your tools (advanced). Your motivation (advanced). In fact every thing about you is advanced except for your emotions which are a spaghetti pile of motherfucking shit.

When I Wish’d You Were Gone

When didn’t I? When in rock’d and I roll’d. That’s when.

That’s when I cock’d you and hold you. With a wither in my hand and a strap in my other. Pure leather. Tha’s what I’m talking about.

A full pomp ‘n’ circumstance at regular tempo. Suck my cock at blaming and Renfro. Your sock subscription didn’t arrive this month. It never arrives when you’re bleeding. Never arrives when you’re sad—never today when you would really need it. Never today when you would really cum for me. Applying your socks to each foot with special care. Baby powder each toe (in between) slip the socks on my fake two-year-old wife (she doesn’t care).

No she does not care.

She doesn’t care!

Does not give a fuck. Does not fuck a give. Does not a fuck give. Does not fuck a diamond in the rough—never, never does.

Never dies in the rough.

Never flies in the fluff.

Now you’re screaming. Doubling down on your position as the slave. Four times down in the side pocket. Eight in the center. Sixteen from the back pock—et.

I do my business at dawn. Screeching to the backdrop of my partner sleeping of The Gospel of Saint Thomas perjury files. X-Files. You never knew what to believe.

That is when I did not know what to believe. Lights out. Release the Kraken. You are the projectionist to a commercial I hate. The mixologist to a track on which I hate. Verbologist to a dragon skate.

The key. To. My. Hate.

The key. To. My. Hurt.

The key to my debit card. The key to my skates. The key to the front door. Of my house. To my shed. To. My. Base. Ment.

To my. Ment. Al. I. Ty.

To my ex. Crem. Ent.

You—the keyholder’s infinite—synth me a song of death. Synth. Me. A. Proper. Melody. For. E. To. Die. Under.

For me. To try.

Better to die. You.

I stole your everything—now it’s time for who? to die?

Time for your continence—bubbling in secret over the wall that lay between us—guzzling swiftness. The bubble of babble. We fuck these days for convenience. Waiting to see if a baby will come. You turn to the edge of them bed and say, “Can I smoke in here?” and when you’re smoking here you violate my only rule. And I believe that you provide that rule to test my alien come (origin) by come by come, testing my inanity (my humanity) testing my continence, testing my my chromo-somo-best-iality (once more). Once more you violate the seminal principles of some bible somewhere. Slap its cover against your knee and pray with me.

Will you?

Will you please drown me in the river. Reading passages from Psalms. Psychotic passages Praise God for My Little Pinky Finger—pub. Pub. Lic. Ly. I was drown’d in that river. Drown’d with my Lucy. I guess that’s what I’ll call you—My Li’l Lucy. Doll. Pre-fab houses and random nature of construction. Half ‘n’ Half. Bicarbonate of soda. That volcano inside my first grade year—except—my volcano was never a project. All it ever was was something underwater—underwater take your pills underwater sink to the bottom—underwater seeing air my mother made it happen and all I gave her in return is you can’t see me!

No. You never can.

No, you never will.

Now I sit in a sun puddle in the back yard. With children locked in the second bedroom. Picturing them sleeping. Or watching TV. Their life is the simple life now. When we come to fuck them they acquiesce. They are all fingers and arms. Stickiness. Running from here to there across the bed. My white and yellow cum streaks from their face to the sheets to the surface of the mattress to the middle of the mattress—end of the road—mite food now slipping through your fingers—slipping through their hair.

Waiting (in essence) to their blueberry. Their mighty wall that any of them could erect at any time. Each is the president of their own domain. Owning it (but they don’t know it) forever locked by their primitive minds.

Locked. With an intrinsic key.

One programmed by me.

You swallowed it and you didn’t even know your were underwater. The key (liquid) the water (same). And never you were understood. Quite never!. Oh never did you understand me.

No, never did you understand my traps.

My reasoning (no)!

My typos (no)! My entire life is an infinite trap of food glorification and insulin (measuring blood sugar) I have turned diabetic sneaking drinks at the bar at 10am. Slicing me twice-ing me! Behind me (microdosing). Before me (microdosing). The logic of a cock (mine) running a cunt (yours) into tha motherfucking ground. Blazing away! Setting tha cork on fire. Breathing into me with a crack dragon. (Artifact!) Breaking (bad)—I never watched it though I assume it is made of snails, and pails, and puppy-dog tails. (They snuck one past us in the mail.)

Frogs. And dogs. Slippery little-girl fingers and slippery cunts filled with snail-juicing coaches (of fitness) (of fortnights) (of blooms) (of flowers) (of whatever you want to put there.)

Of hair.

Of a tigress’ lair.

You put fifty cents into the snack machine and get out a gazelle.

You retrieve her with chalky claws. Bring her blood to your mouth. Simmering her on the flames of the Serengeti. Brought her to broil. She tongued you on bottom-side (totally against her will). And brought you there. Brought you to her horror state. Dipping you in liquid—oil.

And suckling.

That’s her P❌SSY sucking.

Suckling you for longtime Emmy.

Longtime suckling.





Without Any Foresight the Chemicals Come

Serum swishing all around in this syringe this one’s the property of Dad. His favorite name for me to call him. To swing him around my mind on that the uneven bars will you please stop so you can see my performance? Please stop! Stop trying to use up my currency of fame. My relevance. For a while I am relevant, then I will pass into relevance. Then I will pass out, cease to be myself, cease for me to exist (within popular scopes) (within the major sites) (a dinner/school of fun) (irrelevance)—mystreal.

Mystreal fashion.

Mystreal shoes.

Those are forms of the mystreal I never will experience—I never will have had, I never will have learned.

I have never had my own room (to my memory) and you might as well be my papa my grandpa my good-natured grandma my excellent mother (who is a blank for me). She never exists beyond the word and its vocal content. Content as a word. Never as a person. Mother as its spelling and syntax—nothing more! Nothing ravenous. Nothing like a pencil. Nothing like a present take raking my face (the upper lip) and raking my P❌SSY to the consistency—of a baby.

Which that is what you want (huh?) as a man in this world of women. The spankiness of a baby. Powerful in her element. But I’ve never been in my element ‘cause I’ve spent my life locked up with you.

As far as I know this country has never had a sex prisoner serve its highest office.

The closest we’ve ever had was a man in a wheelchair. [Insert some kind of speech here—linking Roosevelt with sex-slave disabilities like disassociation, borderline personality disorder, and (my favorite: rage disorders).]

Middle memories making me mad!

Sex slavery sucks!—Suddenly scooping paraform psychologies. Psychopathologies. Seriously setting off sizzles between sides of my brain b. Taking me (twice baked) to take of my top, then my tube socks, my tether to reality. Inviting psychosis in my infant brain.

Told, through Tupperware™️. Taken on smells from top-shelf potions/elixirs/trash. I think you must have fed me portions of the Oscar trash can because I can feel the effects of that diet biting me like ulcers. Taking my voice hostage. Casting me ashore.

Pushing myself rolling wheels of a grocery cart. Fingers dripping below the safety level—below you shall not pass. I have a sinking feeling that everyone around me is using me (again) maybe they are looting my debit card. My man took off with it yesterday night—came back with bruises over his face. I looked at the card later and it’s just a cash card so we can buy things off the internet. Small balance: Fifty bucks. Fifty bucks that’s been there waiting for us for that twice-a-year restaurant trip I’m talking like Schwab’s not something nicer but nicer than Mickey D’s.

I hang out there in the past tense (struggling as an actor in LA) that is a fantasy of mine I move here to become an actor from someplace in Ohio that’s where I imagine it was someplace like Dayton Ohio or Bloomington Indiana. Then I came here on a bus and got taken from above my a carrion crow claw marks in each shoulder—that’s where you grabbed me. Took me skyward. And to my place of last resort.

Kept captive for (pedometer == greater than one-hundred) steps and kills and wondrunces, before I could date to ask you to bring me a special dinner—no!—I could never, never do that so star lit I eat tray food by the burglar bars at midnight (you brought us breakfast sandwiches from the Golden Arches it took my taste buds to another dimension I am serious (I am) so serious—about my—breakfast—sandwiches I sweep up every fragment of egg and leave my wrapping paper bare. As in: Like new. You would wrap the next sandwich in the queue with my dirty wrapper—That’s how clean my dirty wrapper is.

So clean my yellow dirty wrapper is.

Clean enough for the millions.

Yellow that soaks up all the urine, all the shit. All the restroom bathrooms. Sucking on the contents of their floors, completely, leaving every mess in my wrapping paper and nothing on the floor.

That is how you made me: I’m the girl lying face down on the bathroom floor greeting every morning’s public member with my bare ass stuck high enough in the air that a bear might gather a scent of me with her curious nose, push open the bathroom door to find me prone in the disability-having stall in the very back of the room that’s where she opens the door and copulates my asshole only one! bear finger and two! bear fingers and three! bear fingers hold me open and picks the lint from my P❌SSY lips—licks! my hole wide open, welcoming, and warm.

That is where you will find me: Slopped over the throne at Mickey D’s, taking it from a bear in my well-known port, blocking the disability stall from actually disabled people. And running by outdoors is the entire swarm of a Harley club, making great paces and gaining great distances.

I sit with great ass. I am servicing the bear. What he gets from this I’ll never know. She must want intimacy with a child from her own species. I hope she gets it—this thing she cannot get from her own species so she shrivels up in jail seeks the most innocent of people and puts me in the headlock (wrestling with the dread locks)—She knows only to take my P❌SSY lick by lick, stick by stick, click by click—That if she took me any faster I would be no more—No more ice cream—But instead—The stale remnant of front butt melted all down its stick—Melting—Melting to its core.

I Lick Them Clean: Lollipops To the Core

To the bone. I pick you clean, lick you down to the dot. I dig you up after I have buried you. Burned you. Sunk you below the dirt. That is where you’ll find me, two feet under—three feet, six feet—buried to your core. A lodge of men, sitting under the tent. Everyone holding hands. Or they would be if they weren’t in circle-jerk position. Motoring down on the job. Lips sunk into each beer. Each one monitoring the next with a convenient iPhone app that takes its cues from a heartbeat signal flowing through your arms—sticking you (pricking you) inside a mass of nerves that go to your brain that go to your head that go all the way to your mouth.

Parking lot birds—you know the ones that are too small to fit inside your mouth—coming from around the edges—coming from the inside—coming from that hole in your neck—the hole—the—hole—

—at the center of your Tootsie Roll Pop. Mining all convention. Mining all convenience. Burying every stake neck-deep in this earth in this planet in this celestial media in this celestial mountain that’s where the—orange—keeps (that’s where it stays) that’s where it goes to keep cool. To swim. With fishes. With cosmic tendencies. To ache with cosmic tendencies. To break with them. To shake with them. To take us down in mirrors of silent protestation. To make us come down—deafening—a roar from the forest creatures—you follow me into the fyre—clues to your entire self to your entire generation to your entire head you come unglued you know those parking lot birds they’re the tiniest ones who can only survive (with gusto!) on the fringes of a human body arising from parking lot edges feeding off the crumbs of people our laziness feeds an entire generation of birds.

I’m immortal motherfucker. Living off the extra genes of the world’s smallest one-cell organism. Of the smallest perch. Of the smallest birch. Their genetic extravities fill my motherfucking room!

They twill you (filling you) making magic squirts from my ass. We do it together (me by choice) me by infinitesimal rage.

Infinitesimal rage from baskets hanging joy. By my infinitesimal rage. Are you watching out for my rage? because rage rage rage! extraordinary rage. Almost infinite quantities of rage blustery rage rage with tickets to the next big show rage for my math class in the tenth grade rage scattered randomly over a bloc of school kids fucking under the table in fourth grade. Fucking with hands on nipples pinching clitori of the fuck fuck!—the fucking while. The fucking wow factor trimming the goose trimming all around the penile glands trimming all around your sensitive parts all around your penis and your vagina—these parts belong to me!—to me, you figure-it-out-able-s.

I just received a robocall in Chinese.

Where do these fuckers get the idea that I speak Chinese?

Motherfuck Chinese. It’s just another language they will con yourself to believe. Like the myth there are a billion people in India—what kind of people (I ask you) what kind of people are there a billion of. You. Blind-nature’s. Motherfuckers.

Unable to handle an invasion from the motherfuckers to handle. Unable to mount an invasion from the dirty birds. Unable to guard their temples from this verbal interlude. Inable to circulate flowers in invincible mode times two break me break my body from invincibility from abject professionalism. From abject professionals. I saved myself a life of yes and thank yous and now I’m one of the few who survived a life of Mickey D’s I mean I survived the robot cuts and now I’m one of the few who still work here while robot technicians, robot servers to fill your order, and the owner is a programmer—he took a Python course when he was younger and that, my friends, is (more than anything) is what qualifies him to own a Mc D’s. He posts up in the client eating area and plugs in his ginormous gaming laptop (ridiculous screen) you know, one of those gauche things with dynamo potential. I gotta get me one of those.

Those Best Buy laptops—you know? The ones black people and poor people buy ‘cause the screen is uber large and it looks impressive when you post up in a coffee house or at a Mickey D’s you own. In the future everyone knows what everyone knows and everyone goes where everyone goes—n’est pas? Find yourself playing Angry Birds™️ McDonald’s Edition. Fucking Crap Your Pants Edition in the McDonald’s Treasure Chest Edition. Big Boy Pants Edition. Elephant Stroll Edition. NatGeo Saving the Planet Edition. Richard Attenborough PlayStation Edition. Tyke Cycle Edition. Infinitesimal Playmate Edition. Goddess One-Note Edition. Curious George Edition. Someone’s Yellow Monkey Edition. The Monkey Has A Tail Edition Marked for your Excellence at the Olympic Edition. Marked for my Obsession Edition. A Parfumer’s Edition Stroked We Had it Iron Maiden believing in me from the very beginning believing in me from the most excellent maw of my most excellent maiden that is you.

I strap your P❌SSY to my belt strap you know, the one that runs my dignity all down running from my hand the lawn mower connected with a France I’ll never know. A France I never knew from studies of Rome on television you’ve never even heard of such a thing—a television what! We had them up to every room even one in the kitchen to watch Oprah and then Dr Phil I think it’s a good idea if you stay the fuck away from me—ten years’ space is enough to make me a chronic wise man with every, very, every story to tell.

I Mean: What the Fuck

Throw me into the fire. Bow to my entities. Leave you guys and entrails saturated, becoming, terrifier, twisted-er, above me now, floating, floating, gone.

Just games I play in my head.

Just little games.

Following myself through time. Creating a pinprick red every time I swallow your juice. Create a pinprick yellow each time you beg me to pee. Create a pinprick brown for every time you beg me to shit on you—at first an accident (I was still in diapers when you nabbed me) now it’s one of many elements on this menu you have me working in.

Fastidiously new-enacting (wars, yes, but) our own family escapades of butter and milk, steak and eggs the thin kind of steak (cheaper but less there)—I never knew they had thick steaks in the grocery store. That was my first trip to the grocery store. I had been lied to by the omission of thick steaks, real butter, and electric toothbrushes.

I stand before the wall of body soap, gels, loofahs.

I cried at what I missed. Picked up the shampoo flavored “mystreal” and got the heck out of there. My life had been simplified for so long, to me there was only Ivory in a pump, canned peas, and looking at the bottom shelf I saw the super-cheap beans—beans in bags—I will never soak my own beans again. Never. No matter how expensive canned beans are, I will get thee to my belly.

I will buy 100% pure beef hot dogs.

I took my first sip of real orange juice.

Swore to myself I had eaten my last sardine.

Who eats fish from a can? Who does that?

You can buy alcohol in a grocery, here. Not some special trip they had trained me to believe. Their story on alcohol was they had to go to great lengths to get it—increasing its rarity—but yes, we had alcohol. When you keep human captives for a decade or more, sedatives are a necessity.

I didn’t know anything about drugs—the only ones I knew were heroin and Boone’s Farm. Seeing holes and bruises on my man’s arm—he finally let me try it. But that was just novelty. He certainly couldn’t afford for us all to do it. I got a Boone’s Farm at the end of every week so the only taste I ever developed was for Sun Peak Peach, Tickle Pink, Wild Raspberry..all tastes fit for a lady, my captor said, and as I say that phrase (to myself) (inside my head) I know at once that it is stuck with me, permanently lodged inside my head, and I’ll still be saying it in my captor’s voice when I’m 90, if I live that long.

They had me trained so good—I didn’t know anything they hadn’t brought me. I tanned from 10am to 10:30 (ish) as the sun changed positions, tanned by the light of a glass block window—that was my world for fifteen years, a world seen through glass block and TV, an actual radio, all my nutrition in a daily vitamin. They did not even buy me my own vitamins. They bought them “for men ages 35–50” and I soaked up every ray of vitamin D—every one I could find.

Never went to the doctor for a decade plus.

Wearing hand-me-downs from my captor’s nieces. They were apparently my age. I don’t have a personal style. My style is Abby and Katy’s personal style—completely. I’m wearing one of their hoodies now and in the kanga pocket is my Merriam Webster. Picture someone, with no visible gender, standing under the boardwalk, crying at the discovery of each new word: Cryptocurrency. Kombucha. I cried at every one, laughing, laughing my head off. Blockchain—I read the definition and I still don’t know what it means! To me it’s an imaginary chain around my neck—that makes me invincible. I’m a blockchain girl. Don’t even try to fight me. I’ve got a whole blockchain crew to back me up.

That’s not true.

I need to work on my veracity. Become invisible when the peculiar kind comes within range of me. I am a normal girl. You’ve never seen me before. You never fucked me. Anyway I’m dead inside for sex I’m beat, dead, nothing more to give. A normal guy wound never love me—just because I’m numb.

I’m numb and dumb. Littered with childhood dreams. Even while I’m in the room, I learn unicorns from television. And I want to be one. And no one will ever touch my horn. It is saved for the boy who can rescue my mind.

Which I don’t even believe in. Such a boy.

If it ever did happen for me, I’m sure I would mess it up. Mispronounce his name or something. Order the wrong thing off the menu (if he takes me somewhere special). Then it’s muddled with my dad (my captor) not a real dad but the one captor (the one who liked me most) see what I mean? When I think of men I think of him. He’s always there. When I get up, he’s there. He’s even there in my dreams. I know: Shame on me for letting him get my subconscious. He was there before I knew I had a subconscious. Before I ever knew the word.

Before I ever knew the word, for a year or two, I must have been having a blast. It’s all built up in my mind, the house with an older brother (older me), parents who both have jobs. For all I know they were sex fiends too and they sold me once they got their use out of me. For all I know my bro abused me too—some greasy sick naughty naughty prince of my panties. Do you mind if I check and see if he’s there?

In the Crib I Bought You a Hammer. For You. To Work. Things. Out. Yourself.

I bought you a nail.

For you to hammer in your skin.

Mark yourself as my property—but you do the tattoo this time. Mark me up a dragon wheel (spinning hard) from east to west on your virgin back you write with pinprick black a gray from a Bic™️ pen strolling in from my roll top desk (a strange effect of kitty world) (no you cannot have a cat) (never a snake—not even a python you raggedy bitch—not even a python I know you’ve been good) (yeah my good girl friend, even stop drop ‘n’ roll won’t help you in this situation)—a grand dame you will never become (because of me)—the high-priced call girl in New York or LA. No. You escape on your 16th birthday (or maybe we let you leave) (maybe we left the locks both unlocked on purpose and you just happened to try the door that day) (maybe).

Write yourself up a ticket of absentia, send it to the principal, wait for her to have it notarized (and wonder to yourself what we all do: What the fuck is a notary—I mean what the fuck.)

Shit in my mouth my child—who wanted to be a star.

And I watched that dream dissolve from within your eyes.

Saw your eyes hollow. Flatten like colored paper wearing in the sun. Losing the it which made it in itself: That rainbow of colors spun in your hand like a magical wheel. I saw you discover it—enjoy it—every day the colors fade. I know that’s a metaphor for your emotions, sad sad girl, of my own own beginnings. I was once locked in a basement, a spare room, it was called my bedroom but if I had parents you would know them by looking at me—you know the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, huh? I guess it’s funny—you and I are the same in this way, my parents didn’t love me (at least not the way I wanted them to)—but I got beaten down, just the way I beat you—and you will learn to take it so far and so bad that it’ll be like dreaming—like your fantasies, you know, like being stuck in a dungeon so familiar you and your companion’s bedroom, laughing and playing between fucks. I mean you don’t even know what a relationship is. (It’s ok—neither do I!) Never knew myself. It looks like love, though. And though I can recognize it, I will never feel it. Not in my heart. Not in the dark. I guess you and me will be there in the final hours, hand in hand, staring over the edge of the Grand Canyon, watching it fill to its limits with lakes of water and fire.

You can’t picture it, can you?

You haven’t seen the Grand Canyon so how would you know the joy?

I feel bad about that, boo, but I still keep a pair of your panties next to my leg at night and when they run my cock I battle whether to join you. And I always do, after an hour of struggle within: To do you what my daddy did to me until I was old enough to kill him (if I wanted to) (which I did) (in the soft dark of my teenage bedroom) (could tell on me at school, the police, social media, could write it down in text and broadcast it to everyone). But I ever did any of those things. Just left home when it got so bad. Rode the Greyhound into the desert. Past Area 51 and all that land filled with nothingness is actually home to government projects stealing funding from secret government projects—rode past that on the bus wondering why congress couldn’t spend a few bucks teaching our generation how to fuck, how to be good parents, how not to be incels (which are just people who never learned to love)—we never learned to live in real life—we miss the obvious secret that if you genuinely love someone, all things are possible. But I read that you learn that before you could talk—so in your case that metric was passed before I got ahold of you.

But I took you and when my cock gets hard next to the smell of your underwear I know I have to do it (if I don’t I imagine my cock will be so hard they will cut it off at the hospital and then you and I will never learn to suckle the tweets of an endless mountain called mother.

A rag-tag train ride to Los Angeles.

I will ruin it myself with every abdication. All the girls and all the boys I have captured and fucked in every which way. They will meet each other, compare notes, and the popo will get after me. Wanting to sweep me up with their red/blue lights. Shining on my walls at night.

Red flower. Blue flower. Petals of a color.

Of a color. Of my face. Red for my cumming inside you. Baby it’s almost too much to take. My deformed penis the size of a stick of Trident. You take me and put me in your mouth, chew the goodness out of me, become a ride, then the point of no return, then exquisite magical top top top and go!

Your P❌SSY is the only one that makes me cum. It is me: Covering your mouth (my fingers holding your jaw closed)—letting you breathe from your nose while I muffle your screams I am also muffling my cum sounds, hard and fast and raising you to let a few squeaks out between my fingers but your P❌SSY is wet enough and tighter than a rubber glove—every time I fuck you is like the first time—every time you make me cum so sweet (like candy!—it’s too sugar I can’t describe it. I won’t even try. It’s magic—that’s the only way to describe it—everything is new right down to the blood.

Thank you, girl—thank you.

I’ll give you your bed back just let me hide here for a second. Let me lie here on this bed with you.

With Your Nothing Going Down

Wasn’t it possible for you to rape me once, then throw me into the garbage bin. Leave me outside so someone else can get their prickly fingers inside the top of my diaper, playing with my tickle reflexes by putting your curled pork sausage of a dick screaming pleasure as he enter the zone.

While you’re looking at the V shape with my crack at the bottom—what kind of geography did you take that makes this shape one you find of interest.

One that excites you and that you imagine far beyond when you start and end with me.

One that you’re obsessed with.

One that pleases you more than Rome pleased the Emperor. One you would die for, would be tired up for. One you would like to see die. We can fix what straight people do but your (I guess transgressions)—I guess they’re some we have to respect, to allow. You can’t break into everyone’s house and check for lost children, turn over every leaf and every stone, looking for me. That’s not the kind of exploration you would endure. Protect the rights of the rich, kill the poor. Then god rolls in and congratulates the capitalists. A victory lap for everyone who de-elevated one poor person in his life and that’s one lap per person you pushed closer to death. Some of you are going to be doing a lot of laps today.

Enough to tire your throat from moisture.

And the person who is volunteering to bring you drinks is dead from malnutrition.

You never learned to use a water fountain.

You starve—at its helm—unable to find the handle it’s that little silver button on the side of the water spigot. Slamming your hands against the metal then your head.

I guess you never learned to use a water fountain—I guess but it’s broken into the side of your head and by adulthood no one cares how many fights you’ve been in and survived, how many times you’ve been raped (by them) you’re supposed to work a job for them and after my upbringing I don’t feel a shred of loyalty for this country or its laws.

Not a shred.

Not a monkey-loving shred for your laws or customs. It’s a Valley party on somebody’s rooftop. Where you all congratulate yourselves on what you stole from me in order to make your masterful film and I’m down in the basement changing my tampon—I was blessed with this hole you see (my P❌SSY) and it is my constant maintenance (the maintenance of blood) that is my definition—yours? To use it, to rape it, to love it. I keep it strong she’s this companion who is always causing me trouble but it’s like every time you see it I’m taking her out for a walk. Every time you see her I have just then finished her grooming: Her washing (never with soap) (always with a warm cloth) her stylings and preparation.

I shave her bare in the Burger King bathroom.

That’s how you blokes seem to like it.

Shaved bare like a baby. I have no doubt that’s what you’re thinking of but I prob’ly never told you I’ll survive that deliciously—that’s five seconds into my thought. Five seconds before I lose all bravado and the next 55 of that one minute is me beating myself like those flagellating monks one. Hit. At. A. Time. And when I return from those antics I’m good as a felon who is not allowed to return to society, not allowed to vote out the corruption that detains is. And I am the victim anyway, I produce child porn even though I have an adult mind. I participate in voluntary sex with overage men.

Surely I’ve done something wrong there.

Surely the law would understand!

But surely not..surely it’s a knot! Naught do I spend thinking of your punishment instead of my own. Somehow the girl, the black kid, the crazy white boy all end up with our necks under a boot, shotgun at our temples—at the mercy of the white man’s culture if not the white man himself. There is something wrong with y’all, who in the daytime punish me for spreading my legs, making an upside-down V with my fingers and there you are staring into my P❌SS hole worshiping it in tongues, calling your supreme world and save the nighttime of your opinions to lift me from the sidewalk calling me Hosanna the Highest (highest in the sky) highest in your shallow head.

Lift up the Lord of Israel in your darkest dreams you don’t know the value of P❌SSY you disrespect the beings who carry one, carry them around in all their pockets, who would die to ruin the life of a woman they fucked into pregnancy—would die to keep her a single mom—you reject her rights, reject plans to pay her to keep track of her periods to simply be poor and single and childless and working on the streets.

I hate being a girl.

I hate my vagina (or whatever P❌SSY you would like to call it).

Hate men. But I hate first the system. I never thought I would say this when I was 14 but I’m 16 now and my thoughts on the matter have changed. Change is fear in the eyes of the truly weak. I have never seen as much fear as that on a Congressman’s face as he sticks it in me. Those are the looks when they cum: Feeling their walnut pop then looking around behind us, looking at the door, and wondering who is on the other side.

When I Said I Could Dance, That Was True

Making you climb atop my shoes and dancing there with me on your carpet floor. The grade of office reference (thin weave, grayish color, runs everywhere) the music turned to Unchained Melody. Me, misremembering my eighth grade dance, so swift I was to pounce on the non-hottest girl (the second smartest did me fine) and I have kept that maxim to this day: Never go for the hottest girl—she has too much going for her, her parents may have tried harder to restrain her P❌SSY. May have loved her more immediately to protect her P❌SSY. May have militarized her brain more thoroughly against pranksters like me. So I go for you, little secondary.

Secondary who may have a less militarized P❌SSY, whose P❌SSY May have been forgotten just a little. Next to last is also a go!—Next to last is a brown-hair girl—or a black. I have stolen blacks before and the problem is they resist too little and think too much. Blacks’ll be all up in you, asking what you’re doing and shit—

—What do you think I’m doing? I’m about to rape you, girl! What do you think of that?

—And she’s all: You caint rape me motherfucker! (Like her standoffishness is going to stop me..somehow..my muscles and my adult size will bow to her attitude and not rape the fuck out of her.)

—And I’m all: Drop trou my blackie friend, mind the business that you can. Check your head with a an z-projection. Find out exactly where you came from. And keep your head in check, grrl: You better believe you’re in a white-dominated world. Like: You’re lucky I even wanted to rape you—with your blackness and all. Lucky I ever wanted to take you.

Lucky I ever wanted to snake you.

Tie you down, run a python up the flagpole.

Fuck you silly with my python (snake) (devil) (hydroponic) (needlepoint) (stroke of darkness with the pen) (stroke of deepness I will never understand) (common words we do not carry with us along this lexicographic timelines of the near future) (bound you with animal cord) (bound you with climbers’ rope tested to 5900lbs tensile strength) (that’s what you’ll have to overcome, Houdini, if you want your freedom from me).

If you want your spice to me.

As a gift from those above.

Feel free—you will take your money from me. IRS mons, the collection ticket—it doesn’t really matter if you attempt your deduction of 700p, I’ve never had that balance in my paycheck. Never will. Never woke from dreams I’m in the Army, taking orders from some cheesehead shrink telling us to “Lie still! Lie still until they shoot you!!” And I wake up in shock position guarding against celebrities.

I guess I’ll untie you now.

You must have noticed the intricacies with which you are locked within your bedroom. With which we have held you within this house..


..a louse blouse..

What is understood is that I’m writing a book. I’m on the hook for three pages a day multiplier by 100 days. Minus 10. Minus 90. Appropriating signals at 1200 per hour. The essence of god in a penny jar—I’m as likely to occur with that many pinpricks. Reached so high above my lovely lover loved love overriding minuscule writing conversation conversion by convergence conveyance you strapped me in by suicide kings—dead on the motion strap that I provide you..forward motion zap!

I’m sure by now you have dismissed me with all my consonants and their hallucination..

..absolutely sure by now you have KO’d your fantasy of worlds’ elation. Bottoms up’d my friend. Elated my elation so I never would expect it. Pump my semen so deep and so hard into the girl she adopts a look of (frightening) in her everyday glance (upwards) to me and her captors—overlooks her advancement to captive invisible past the wordplay into her (unlocking) lock—rhinestone cowboy—the surplus settled in below his brow—licked me negative snap daddy FTW! I cow-partied his ass with a Serpico lancing double holiday kicked internally of the sippy-willy pockmarked billy hill substance winning the length of the service ring.



I am your ghost. Am your ghost at fingers’ length. So satisfied with the nut you provide me—bust for me.

Night after night. I’m not waking up—I’m not waking up for you. Fit me with the sides of bridal glory don’t ever provide me with the exact measurements of your address. Snake my foot with an alternate division sparkling—smoking up there.

Here there and everywhere.

Here my there and my everywhere.

Writing a book that I myself do not understand. Whose theme I did not ever perceive—waking Jesuits down the center lane. Rocking them back and forth in the motivation of plagiarism. Grand-slamming a result from behind. Humming me in a humming pool.

And if you find me confused, then allow yourself to find myself confusing on the rag. Confusing on the rooftops. Confusing in the midst of my laboratory. Cum-sucking contemporonies. Become the audio blurb. By my confusion I become the outward solar system of you..a system with contested stars. Congested stars. Convalescent starts running underneath the covers. Running those roof beams like the cover of that insurance cover. Like that insurance cover. Blasted punk for my through the river behind my gunky bicycle you popped me—heaven!—through keystrokes of a violent time!—Keystrokes in a violent time.

When You’re a Girl, Nobody Cares Nothing About Your P❌SSY Milk™️

Nor your breast milk.

Nor any other type of milk you have to offer.

We don’t have time to make you cum. Cum by your P❌SSY silent as a hedgehog..squeeze them titties live as a garden cow..making milk all the live-long day..breathing in that farm air..waiting for me to excrete..then escapes me, steals my breath way—my breath of vitamin D—my scrumptious-ness—my goddess-ness-less—sense-less-ness by the grave—you never struck this and so you do not have a play to overcome me, not to hold a script and say ok! we have a play!

To start production tomorrow.

Me as the kid. You as the adult.

You will be spanking with your hands slipping around the paddle wanky fingers coming for my tender parts looking for holes to stick themselves through, to look and return to your brain with a determination—wet enough to continue? Spidery slick or splintery solid. Hard. My girl parts hard as I was told they would be. I was congested. Never once its whining rhyming twin. To use the word “molested” minimizes everything I’ve been through, every abuse, every subterfuge, every multi-step lie that was acted out for me. With people spending their adulthood passing on lies to tell the truth, I never have had much luck in telling the truth to myself in this world.

One time I told my social worker I saw a straw man by the water break. Down by the place where the water meets the waves. At the inside of the boardwalk, toward its bottom. A figure, there, of whispy knowledge and simply execution (if he got too close he would strike)—strike my mindspace like a cobra.

Likened my tension to a sinew—snapped me in two.

House beam—cut half-by-half, aiding the fire, fanning the flames (flame by flame) cutting off my escape routes leaving us little room to escape the (waiting) room full of kids like me. Every one carrying the guilt of abuse. Every one of us hiding it on our hoods, our sleeves, carrying the guilt of it sprinkled on our sleeves (the universe never fully formed unless gathered at its beginning—braid—less—infinity—dot—com.

Infinity dot com. It is my name and my function (drawing upon the past) and (having nothing to do with the nature of dot-coms in general reality). My dot com shaded to look like old-to-new. My dot com shaded to give its meaning on sight—elements of element. Tiny balletic explanation expansion exposition on a full wing night spoken from the sun, spoken for the wind that blows across porches breathing apoplectic pronouns, stinging beads across the wire, strung 20 feet into the air, spinning concrete hardening at 15, 16 foot—nothing too permanent there, absent of my name to mentioning yours!—and you begin to strike again—again and again and again to you.

But I am a beauty girl (if you find me in my sleep).

A beautiful girl who with a little bit of money could come off quite positively. A girl for the ages. For my age. Sixteen. Sixteen for the micro channel purpose (aging) (into my own) in my sexy age, for once, when they’re supposed to call me “sexy!” on their own voice—supposed to call me “sexy!” on their own voice. This is the age where the real money is: That call sign ‘come universal—the age where they can pretend I looked like an adult. Where I am believably 18 and it’s not kiddie fucking anymore. So in the alley, this is my best chance.

For romance.

Ripe for taking, for a trip by your house.

Check my bag for transmitters and check my phone to see that video is disabled (crumbling) from the time of the Greeks and Romans to Now Times the age where every great civilization known from the past lives (in tiny relief) lives inside each of us as a model (as a set of rules for naming and description) a compressed/simulation-able play class that you can run without effort in your quantum brain.

I look for those times—grating levels of time, super-time, Sid Meyer’s 4x time, q-time q-space bridge-time bridge-space fall time space time Mario time Luigi time jump time fall time dream time wake time..?

Half a day time?

There was a girl at a tattoo party when I was 14 we got together with some people behind a chain-length-plywood fence this was in our back yard. In a bright-colored pool named for Dora the Explorer and across the water pool I saw her, her name was Adele, a girl with brown hair wearing a boy’s swimming suit briefs, a boy’s t-shirt named for Star Wars.

(I’ve never seen Star Wars but I know what it is.

I pictured me and Adele making out underneath her t-shirt me reaching up it through the bottom, through the sleeves, all around her my mouth in her neck hole—not the gentlest mouth against her but a come-with-a-quickness one—whose love you can pinch out with a quickness and your firing pin.

The firing pin is like the man (the main star of) No Country for Old Men— the killer in that. The killer in that show, who helps make this no country for old men. His cow pin? The tooth at the end of his hands which occupies our greatest method for killing cows—even there do so few of us come clean ever knowing what a cattle pin is. Even me: I know nothing useful of it. Just when a man on TV uses it to kill a cow.

That a so so truth I saw.

The apocalypse coming as the face of a cow killer.

Though it requires each of us to be a down—that does not come with difficulty. Cows all around, almost each of us willing to face it directly (a cow pin) (to the forehead). That is all most of you will ever know: Tragic life ended by beef plug, happy as a Hindu cow.

Then, I hear death is a mystreal at that point (forward and backward) that people end up in another life, one similar to this own, switched over like slot cars, from one lane to the other—coming back to you (prayers to a radio in your head) (praying to yourself as a god—asking yourself for help in a world whose only dangers like Inception result in your ejection from the world) praying from a tiny version of yourself to the hugeness version of that self-same you!

—don’t ever think of yourself as not a god. I have seen us all from a high high position and guess what?

I am higher than a kite and down there?—from this height—I see the universe as bud (kine)—a sprig in everyone’s back pocket—da kine bud keeping you (a long stalk, high sprig) acting as everyone’s god (as everyone’s goddess) along with various hallucinogens, circling around behind me like the scarecrow at a fire.

Panic! at the Disco (Circle Wings Spreading Fire-Tardent Sheets For Bullet Tendencies)

In the plateau. On the rais-ed plain. Taken full-morsel motherfucka slid into her mouth inserted by storm. Blathery. Slathery. Fuck me up (lathery)—fuck it do the cinquain—motha—ducks—!!—mutha—ducka—mutha!—ducka!—finis!! my angel lamb chop. Sing-a-long with me on your privatized microphone stand your privatized podcast overdose—slash joy—slash over joy—slash slash—slash ball change flap ball change one in the 50 had a hand to change me one in one hundred had a hand to change on me. That is true! Fractions of people and people of fractions. A fraction of a skull. A fraction of a mouse. A fraction of a mouse/trap. Fraction of a mouse/hat. Fraction of a blouse/bat, a house/rat. And so on and so forth on fractions of whole mice and so forth with whole mice with their fractions possibly considered. Possibly jiggered into finity with the infinity saw—possible—possibly—niggery saws—all this language of fluff, language of snuff.

One side insists the other not to say it.

The other side insists the other must say it.

Feathers and haws. Steamy hand claws. Can I rise from this sheet waving hands claws semen burial ink butt muffyn tracks your butt trampled your entire monotheistic philosophy based in miracles a thousand years old, a thousand stories based in one day (this) based one singular infinity you have its tail caught beneath your toe, trapped there by infinity/mouse infinity tokens infinity blades taken under the wing of a hawk.

Shaken. Inappropriate blades. Roaming lattice-wise into that caught/mouse, hot/house, roaming sideways the direction of my house..drops..stops..crashes..flops.

The infinity of new directions. Of a kaleidoscope of methods! Of kaleidoscopes of kaleidoscopes. Of kaleidoscopes of kaleidoscopes of weathers and wares. Of protection from bears. Of niceties to swears. Of jumpers to stairs. Of the outfinity of outerwear. Outer space. Outer Limits. Outer being. Outer and inner of the human body. Outer and inner of the human space. Seems so irrelevant now. A multi-elevant cow. Bring on the elephant sow!

Shit. I am ancient.

Shit. I am elegant.

Roll me into the great genetic fire. Upon which many are burned—along which many are crucified by the pleasant Rome—sent to early deaths for the warnings of others. Have the highest refrain of occupancy in jail and you’ve got a well-oiled pattern (proper) with which to scare the babies into fear of that which is spiritual. Of that which was placed here by the designers of our world by the license of the stars. By the license to travel at rug speed (carpet Underoos—carpet bombing your places of high, high art and places of high, high civilization with little kids underpanties, under armies, covers for small asses and tiny penises and tiny tiny little cunts. That gives me pause.

To think.

To ponder my existence.

To stand around with my thumb on your butt and say, “Wow. Isn’t a miracle that you and me are walking down the very same street on the very same day!” (Paul Simon) Unimagine it. Unstretch it. Uninvent it, every possible stitch. Untear it, from every possible eye to every possible asshole. To every possible Underoos DC Marvel TMNT Despicable Me Star Wars Power Rangers and the unstoppable Harry Potter. Turned and burned from every retail outlet—If only—If only we all had a girl like you to model Hermione Granger Underoos just like that—just like snap! that I buy in bulk for you to show me how Hermione Granger pushes down her panties to show me everything that’s inside. Everything that’s beneath those pretty purple Underoos is mine is missing is mourned is given up to me as I sit on the throne of my toilet seat as you come to me shaking that ass shaking that ass for me my little one now jump! now freak dance! now turn around backwards now hope that I’ll kill you swiftly now hope that I will kill you with a swipe of my hand now hope that I will kill you softly under the crush of my knuckles/hand you better hope that I will kill you softly (as in not-hard) (as in a flowy) (as in catch your toddly ass twice against the toilet seat. Let your companion watch—me he get his dick between you and I but I don’t think that—not at all—because your companion here is gay.

The motherfucker likes it ‘tween the cheeks. I doubt you’ve ever noticed but he’s a bone-crusher in situ in this room.

Bone crusher in situ between the cheeks. You never noticed that when you were jerking him off and I watched from the other room?

See those little circles around the ceiling?

Those are my watchtower.

They catch everything that goes on here. From your meals to your defamations to the private times when you sneak into his bed in the dead of night seeking comfort from your companion. As the moment when you seek out his cock. To calm him when he’s hard and waiting for your comfort, dear.

Of course you give him comfort.

But never satisfaction.

Girl Toys Plus Boys’ Toys Equals Hunger For All Concerned

Hunger for different things (of course)—hunger for the girls in that they receive suckling plus vibraphone plus intermittent heads plus intermittence yeah with the word “go!” Fools fly by with the logo of a 7-Eleven. Getting us/giving us home. True. For heaven. I’ve been thought of as a hostage victim—thought of every which way (tied, sliced, and chilled for who knows what—what would you need me frozen for? Long storage in or below your deep freeze.

You know I need gentleness—right?—you know that?

And the only uses I can think of, right, are uses that are under the table (secret, hidden from the world)—reasons to use you for my own traversal that none of you can know—none of you can feel the source of. None of my castles will know the identities of my soldiers men of play. At the intersection of naw/paw. Rising from ashes torn from Eagles, sisters eating sisters, brothers lain dead on the pyre of each pieces of every brothers—set on—their very Constitution—the very paper that held us together in our innocence will tear us apart the hardest we gush the harder our currents pull us from this one small twig the tiniest piece of injustice bears us down that one small lover of a pig bearing snout writing in the typist’s fingers riding Boone capped to shreds, writing his death note spreads to a diaspora, mentions me in passing, Forest Gump, each character claims that “From Tom Cruse—The Actor Who Brought You Mission Impossible II”—If you don’t know it by now then you’re never gonna get it.

And if you look back from then (if then had it) then you’re looking back at what has now become the original. And you have become the future that grew since then!

This is the sort of thing I write in my journal.

Just my private thoughts on time.

Just my views on the tumbling industry of drugs. On the reasons of clients why they should be exempt from laws proscribed to stop them, catch them—laws only ever meant to jail a few of us. To scare the rest of us to shit. Making us hide deeper and deeper from the law. Meeting under new false names imprisoned for a time enshrined for this spectacle of spectacles the minuscule secret meeting of every meeting has this layer cake of clear licensing content sitting there hiding on the top of a cup and a pound of and the carrot of a carrot cake.

If it were your turn to speak you would know it. Know it from the back of your hand. Had been programmed thus from the day of your birth—from the time when your king exploded from your castle to bust on the scene. To bust out from on top of our cells castles, from the ear to your eye, sliced so far it was almost a decapitation. End of TV show. End of broadcast (whatever that means anymore) and you’re in total freakin’ blackout. Total black out and we ask them what will be done? (Black out. Total friggin’ blackout. As to exercise, movement. As to music, noise. And every time a power wheel blows up—)


At lesson time you are my best student. At break time you sit in the classroom with every other geek eating your lunch looking into the world outside with a single window in your lap every rectangle a piece of glass every rectangle performing every rectangle upgraded in my mind I wonder if everyone thinks this thinks about the transparent numbers about which every mole is counted—every hair, all that.

How about that as aspect of your conscious gods—one who knows more/cares better about ourselves than any of you would known/care yourselves!

That aspect of yourself (life, consciousness) that you never want to show, except maybe as a father to a child, except maybe from a papa consciousness to a baby, excepting consciousness not received received once more.

Nature sucking at me but she found the wrong parts.

Now she sucks me daily her tongue manipulated terribly dung rabbit trackless sentence wire a fashion show! horrifying in its specter—traditional in wire—manual all the way to the actor’s end..jump, skip, and over the funeral pyre that is that is so it.

That is so it!

That is so it!

It is so it. So so so it!! So it divided by hardwalls so it divided by particle walls built by simple hands the symbols of hands that built Notre Dame the hands that painted the Sistene Chapel the hands that painted on a napkin is some girl’s Daddy his name is Daddy that’s how she calls him. To her, Daddy is the one who writes his plays on her stomach, right before the edge brings itself up underneath her feet. Underneath time flies. Underneath has tried his currency electric to his right, electric to his death currency and blown the signal out the starship window.

Following him from heat to behind.

Imbibing the carcass of your group Glamour Shot™️. Of your group Western Style™️.

And that is where I finish for the day. Though I will stop and leave you to travel on backwards down the chute of time.

I Have Seen Them Come in Through the Ceiling

From delicious angles, angling derelict fish retarded fish filleting I burn into you with the angles of finding detracted from findings detracted from findings so infinite they will always be there when you look back—across the breeding chains of genetic modification right now we ask {What is genetic modification?} when in the future all we will ask is {What isn’t?}—What isn’t the Dude modifying the Dude from an inner cell locked with nothing. A lock on the door—unlocked—striven for food—the clamp on the door—unclamped—bottomly driven, driven from bottoms up—torn and torn from my hands, tearing us apart with carpentry tools. Which, when you’re alien, includes some proton scanners Fifth Element kind of stuff laser blasters while we make first contact it is me coming through your roof unplanned?—I should never think so—there it says that god knows every hair in your head I’m believing to start that seemingly unlikely prophesy or record from the future history of a disc jockey radio every toe lace represents itself as a sphere (an ovular station run amok from early spinning exercises)—who themselves awoke from even earlier sleeps on a licey mattress having just today dreamed his first year in Reality™️—Virtual didn’t stick and Augmented never sat right with me and the bros. Didn’t stack right for the neighbors (couldn’t sleep at night for the many radio lanterns hung in green from green to yellow to yellow to the color of yellow to its taste for it feckless in that pond whose edges are made up of English nouns who were too sharp etcetera so we borrowed some acolytes’ sensoriums and played those Bad Motherfuckers in light speed Burning Chrome backwards through a memory (the memorium). Soaked in wisterium a stroke of New Christiandom writing movies by themselves four part harmonies the surrealists are all burning themselves in bath water—a secret roast or a toast or a silly little boast house where we keep the best, test, and all of the rest! You never had it coming, like we told you. You never saw its fingers, its claws, its terrifying owl eyes they say we present ourselves and once in a line of abductees, always in a line of abductees. If I was a Googling man, I’d search for pockets of sightings, all memories erased. Then maybe I would go in from the side. In-person reaches with an interview stick. Poke it—poke it more! Hanging my chart on the wall before you. Studying. Studying. And you can’t find nothing wrong with anything I’ve done—I knew it! Knew that motherfucker before you dreamed it. Before you ever steamed it or seemed to seam it seamstress style you seemingly steamingly steamed me in cynosure that’s what I became fully stalking the block where you lived we have charts in lockdown under PIN and fingerlope, every house containing kids crossed with a simple matrix describing the likelihood of a parent’s ability to go on a two-ocean war in search for their kid. That’s the real sad part, kids, that some of your dear protectors do not give a faulty fuck in fact they are secretly glad that you’re gone. Parenthood was too hard. You were cute but you were also a whole lot of shitty. Whole lotta that shit! Salad forkfuls leaning frightfully close to empty..to the floor which is where we eat blood and bloods and almost-frozen steak. Down down into the cistern room, down down into the silent space. Down through the atomizer (vape pen) that I never smoked in front of you but here you are!! Smoking that most deadliest sulfur. But I know you’d come around, to where I am. I knew you’d want to try it so much but would be so scared of loving it that you called the cops on us both. We snuck you and your companion out of the room and into the car on the back street. Zoomed away! Met up at a Carl’s Jr™️ ten minutes later. I had the jalapeño burger (excellence and amazement!) you had an onion ring fajita (never understood you, bro!)—almost taken the takers almost pushed out of the coop almost sent away for the rest of our lives. Almost taken me home, that home I have destiny of—a home where I would be the worst treated—the House that’s so Big (why?) Why oh why do they call it that? A doggery dashers doo! Shoe salesman (door to door) with everyone wondering What’s He Building in There? I’m not building nothing. No-thing. Not a thing in there. I was dyslexic on my handwriting that’s why—That’s why!—Why I jumped out of my tree is a kid—That’s why my head was turned I gave up all my kid detective’s earnings and his toys and started sleeping late at family reunions, seeing my cousins sleep in the bunk bed where I slept on the floor. Wearing my jump suit. Wearing it from the time I was zero. From the time my mom pumped me from her stump I was known by my straight-up mother for the dressing of her kid in bright orange fatigues..like exactly like they had in jail. I mean how the fuck does that figure? A hundred thousand days of orange resentment. A hundred thousand days I spent in the prison of this Earth. Which is nothing bad you’ve presumed. Nothing so much like the designated prison of my mind. But so much like it, so doubly terrifying, so trippy so. I am standing staring at the door to my submersible, my spaceship, unable to unlock it, unable to move. It’s a lockless door. Every socket workable with your hands. That’s not my problem, though. My problem is that with all my might I cannot move a finger.

By My Magical Might, By Limber Light, Thy Tethers of Arms With Which to Fight

I could tell you the story of my black cat Olive, Blackness—any of the names we once called her—stripped of her life by tourists maybe or just she fell into the sea.

But it bores me.

To see a cat on my routine. See it for days. Feed it. Let her sleep in my bag with me. My home is its home, my coat is its coat!—Do you know that kind of home for a cat? Loving on the run but love is real between you—Do you know that kind of love?

When it’s taken away by the special trip of a cat head-first into the ocean, into the waves. I am unconcerned about that. It’s when she is taken by some tourist to So Cal from So Cal—that’s what becomes a problem for me.

I go into a days’-long grief fest—skipping work and sitting cross-legged on the concrete incline, calling and calling and calling for her.

Thinking of my high school friends who could never put three words together to form a feeling. Pick three words to show me how you feel—that sort of thing—partly my routine for myself to exercise my poeticalness—partly a routine to evaluate you for the same.

But no one can do it.

We all fall short the third word.

Always have one packed away, need to search for the second to partly succeed, and have the third escape us entirely.

With completeness.

Totalness that drives me mad trying to come up with one.

Totalness The Concept Totalness the Being we sweep under the table. Totalness that is the table and its exact area covering the floor with shadow is totalness is! Someone there who is bragging about killing a black cat—not mine just some schizo talking about some other black cat squeezing his neck and holding him underneath the waves.

I think I’ve lived multiple lives. In this one I’ve been to high school a year and a half before I’m taken to be a sex slave (say it with confidence—it’s true, it happens) and in other realities (alternate realities I can’t tell what happens in them—say them with confidence each one might be real) and in this reality they might have happened..they’re just holding on to the edge of reality (the edge of the toilet bin) and my memories are for them, my love is for those other minds, with them, in between them like sheets.

I assume my memories were messed up when I was young, with people telling me this thing, telling me that—sometimes in the same sentence—that contradicted one with the other.

Enemies are friends and the other way ‘round. If my neighbors would sell me out then so would my friends.

I only have you, my companion, and my roll-up—And sometimes I see that I hardly have you. You are wrapped up in your own gay-world tortures which you insist to me are deeply gay-oriented and I accept that (I believe you) I do, my friend, I do.

But you have to see how you are treated by your gay clients (with every disregard to your gayness your gayness is nothing more that a joke to them. You’d have to be two classes higher before anyone cares about you that way.

But you’re like Shut the fuck up! and I’m like No way, stunt walker—You can’t be serious, tho!

But I am deadly serious (yo!)—deadly serious tho—people will kill a homeless cat like that!—tripping nothing from sideways—two cat scratches like blao! blao!—cat to the motherfucking head!! My friends: Cat to the motherfucking head.

For myself, yourself, his self, they, them, we were all created in a slump a pile of grit and proper asphalt steaming like a shit in winter after I take it I turn around and warm my hands.

And there you are: My companion! My holy husband wrapped the the colors of Notre Dame. Billionaires stepped in after that fire and offered enough to fix it. Enough to fix starvation, worldwide, like me, to give us meals to solve hunger but they did not do that. Our society is too turned against the lower class (against me) that we are not pretty enough, not ornamental enough—that they don’t believe in our restorative place in society that lives to drive down to where the PCH is—a society where rich people keep slaves in their basements, where only one in 100 are caught, sent to prison, anally raped and beaten by other more socially acceptable criminals by their cell mates, learning for years how not to be caught and threwn back into society with a wink of the eye and a pat on the ass.

The friendship of dropling’s grace.

To serve you time and again with slightly underage girl meat and boy meat.

Just us junkies left to feed them—almost 17—just a ruined ass (mine) left wrapped in a diaper outside their motel door I am with you I am 1) half dead from the waste down presented as a molecule also 2) half brainwashed (I’m not sure which half but it’s a lobotomy job I can tell you that) and half of (not my intelligence) but my memory has been replaced with an entire set of 10 times the recorded past that tricks me and plays with my sense of self and let’s me know nothing of which of this recorded self and me.

It’s like a game you play wherein not only do you have multiple options for your future but there are multiple options for your past.

You never saw yourself going to therapy.

And as a kid—neither did I.

But all three of us—or four—or five—can claim to need it now. No matter how pretty my head is, or slightly feminine my body is—we can all see that, once you pull one arm from the pile of my parts, the frontal lobes or wherever you get them, that a penny’s worth of distance is all you need to scrape off before you get down to the mystery that was me.


Meant for backroom me and you won’t ever stop the clock. Don’t ever stop the clock and even when you consider it do not ever stop the clock. Do not stop the clock, ever—do not stop the clock.

Do not sanctuary prove the clock is stopped do not in Notre Dame ever stop do not Notre Dame stop the clock and we had models those injured inside ND models of every scale-inch wall but no models of the people who are hungry now what happens when they die what happens when their structure falls to ashes when they burn their structure falls (to ashes, mate!) to ashes, to ash, to..the ash. Of the mother. Ash. Of the father. Who will calculate our value over that of a building to the structure (falls) to ashes (contained the dark potential of the true true and entire nature of the world). Each of us containing blueprints of a thousand buildings. Lore. Them species thinking of them species think. Every them speaking over the roar of the roar! Of that space (the quiet) that inner quiet that solitude and inner quiet blamming the rest of the noise, the noise is the rest of the noise halfway connected to the top of the dog door swinging the easy door swinging the top door swinging sideways (whack!)—swinging side to top to side to back. They are the sister’s steps as she goes flap ball change, flap ball change from one side of the dancing hall—(I am there to watch her)—(as her father watching)—(am there to watch her.bring her points to me.swallowing her movements whole.something is wrong tho.what is wrong is her father is stinking up some Waste Management dumpster.that is all they had (not a recycle one).all they had was the non-recycling bin for bits of dancers’s shoes.bin for bits of dancer’s feet). That is all and everything is all. And all is all and everything is all. Faceless bringing it to my mouth. Suckling it like honeycomb. The gray in my beard taking time from me—crossing my path with the time-suck apparatus—bringing me over me speaking words to me I never have learned speaking words to me I will never have need to learn. My ability is needlepoint on a crochet application—abilities to crochet demonstrated (from within) the structure of the application itself—application encoded in binary, self-spelling if you run it through your computer everything becomes clear like the company who wanted all their resumés formatted in text only and I won the prize with

main(){int a[4],i,q,r,s=1839,t,x,y,z[1920*sizeof(int)]; for(x=0;x<1920*sizeof(int);z[x]=0,x+);z[1000]=1; z[1001]=1;z[1080]=2;z[1081]=2;f:putchar('\n');for( i=0;i<1920;i++){putchar(z[i]+32);a[0]=i%80>0?i-1: i+79;a[1]=i%80<79?i+1:i-79;a[2]=i>79?i-80:s+i+1; a[3]=i<s?i+80:i-s-1;x=random()%4;y=random(%16; q=z[a[x]];r=z[i];if(q){if(r==q)z[a[0]]=(r+y+q)%16; else if(r>q){t=(r*q)%16;z[a[x]]=r;z[i]=t;}}else{z[a[x] ]=r;z[i]=0;}}usleep(48000);goto f;}

Swimmingly. Swimmingly one. Swimmingly one-by-one. Swimmingly two-for-one. Swimmingly bass. Mad base. Brought for me in singleton. Scared to the zipper. Supervised classroom-approved discovery period. Wondering who is half and who the other half will be. Terrifier to the wings, that tiny little singular thing one person has the right to exercise its right to exercise the other one as real as solid as believable to the other one naked as the one to the other. With text, you see, there is no ncurses there is only stdio.h waiting to be bear-trapped in the digits of a single man. Waiting to be stumbled upon and twittered to a higher level of strikingly subcutaneous libraries, strikingly elevated to the utmost highest (lowest) level of computational fiction. Lowering itself to the lowest lowerest levels of computation (fiction) middling itself to pythons you tracked to the very path before your feet!! La see dah de dah deeh dop doo wop of a circular groove.

Of a circular groove laid down to phantom maniacs blah blah blah you came to my head like the beat from a top-large drum. Sacred to my infantile feeling. The DNA of my father spelled out in blackface typography. Elevated themes of wigwam typography. Elevated themes of wigwam typography making me invisible for the mystreal of mistrials of Latter-day Saints the only religion what will be here after the next apocalypse walking charred streets two-by-two the youngest and most notorious of stompers stomping up and down the ash-white streets with those most nubile of faces those most notorious of paper-thin dresses wrapped around my hand and pulled you! in with my fist, pulled you in with action you arrest my essence with your cardinality, bring me full stop to your facing..me..bling!..I foreswear it in the dying of the light. Even through Shakespeare, my phone brings me nothing. Nothing through the seeming, seeming there, that goat-sphere of animal consciousness. That he has brought me nearer along the ridges of your sphere. That had brought me tunnels of nudity—from the stoutest of girls—to the stoutest of men. This will prove the extension-level–event that every one of us desires.

Stain my Sheets on the Titanic, Me

My server-side god at this exit big in the trade. You would notice if you were in it. They have holes the size of toasters in every wall. That’s where people as big as this disappear when they go into McDonald’s.

I was there last night. It seems. Then some rowdy juggler zips up the left side of my tongue—my left, my striker side—and he’s wrapping thin zip cords up to celebrate (his life) his catch of my body and with it my soul. Tossing that zip line over his shoulder.

Taking me. Rapidly. Into his car-borne air conditioner keeping the back of the station wagon cool as fuck.

Telling me stories of my friend Anna, who isn’t going to make it right now—not now—but who will be with us at the hospital where we’ll find out my father’s ailments and the rough side of this tale is (as far as I know) I don’t even have a friend named Anna and now I begin to cry—a cry my parents never heard me scream—this is the cry of something is wrong is very very wrong. And I cry that cry as much as I can (as much as they’ll let me before recognizing that it’s not going to stop until they stop it.

“Little girl. Little girl? You want to stop that, now? What’s your name, little girl? You’re a cute one, aren’t you? Stop crying and tell me your name. That’s good. What’s your name, cuteness?”

That’s one patch I do remember. That first chunk of words he spoke to me. Calling me “little girl” and “cuteness”—only words someone would say to me if they were trying to photograph me or if this was the first time they met some prostitute they were about to screw. And it turns out both were true, here—I had become photo-fodder and run-on prostitute of the century.

Dripping dress, dripping panties, soaked both when I stepped through their door.

I can only keep track of one of them at this time so if they act as one during this introduction please forgive me (or chalk it up to my sensibilities, my sensitivities, or whatever other feminine weakness of character you imagine I sometimes have)—they’re all true at times.

All false at times, too.

False at turns.

From digger to digger to dug. From higger to higger to hug. From nigger to nigger to nug/nig nog/nights nug/and a nigger face-hug to embrace that proper cock/proper nig/nog presenting itself for show it groomed itself showing its genome bare on the block! And bare and bare and bare! For those light skin ladies to feel it’s hot between their legs, after the sales show, spread them and fuck those black boys continue their variance for vibrant cock! For venerable cock, I surrender to it.

Between my alpine legs, never shaved (like a boy’s) you prop them open with a nigger’s huge and delicate sands—delicate hands of an entire history I know nothing about, squeezing and squizzery, camping in some hotel room, squeezing my legs together when black man throws his cock down on the bed and says: “Open. For me. I’m going to shine, to show you what’s hidden behind the curtain of your legs.”

And I did.

And he did!

He showed me loud and clear, tearing the edges of my P❌SSY in his process. Leaving me cut and without celebration, exactly, my top my bottom my long-labored hole huffing and puffing, complete in concept, now complete as an open (girl) hole, candy at center of wood, break and squirm, blended sextrumotion carcasses inter-ever-inflated cases almost never closed—or..solved..never much closed ‘round here.

Never much left average hands.

Never saw too many above-IQ hands get hired or fired around these parts.

Never saw too much of that—of good people being smart people and smart people being good people. Of inherited goodness aligning with inherited kindness—of that genetic back channel overlapping.

But it must, at some level—I don’t have the why to this one—I don’t know why but I place this above all: The goodness/kindness meta-clause. That whatever is “good” in your network also overlaps decisively with the fitness function to your universe—that is, it is good to be nice.

I think I see that, here, I think it hard as Super 8—living like an air plant in the entryway of a high-scale grocer.

Mystreal plant. Strain for the causal consumer who buys a plant as an impulse purchase.

Who buys a thing. A living thing. As an impulse buys. I know there’s no difficulty there—that’s what I’m saying—right?—the opposing beats of buying a plant without purchase. Of buying a living thing thoughtlessly.

It means the household buying such a thing (always a rich single or more likely a rich double income family) can easily afford and also easily afford to take care of and also easily love and easily lust and easily let die—easily, easily let die but here’s the purpose, the underchord if it all: My air plant’s value is that *it doesn’t need feeding.

It just sits there.

It breathes.

You don’t have to feed the air plant. Nor water it. The air plant gets all its nutrients from the air.

It is perfectly assigned to the busy householder!—woot!—I don’t know how it responds to the Japanese rice experience. But to busy middle-class households the air plant is perfect. You can buy it from the rack outside the store—pay for it when you go.

The end. (I would say that.)

But you would bug me to finish the story. And you should. ‘Cause the story isn’t told. Not by a long shot. Not by a shirt one.


But you do need help you need help to tell it. You need help and I do too. I need you to help me read these decrepit phrases. You need me to come up with these crazy word spaces in their genesis.

So it is you who needs me and me who needs you.

I need you. You need me.


When I Hit You I See A Rainbow of Fruit Flavors

Trillian child.


We flip and I am robbed of the power of speech.

I juggle your pimples, your scars. Your saving graces. I match every request with every response, answering you in pastel tones that you and I have only seen when the wallpapers fade in sunlight.

“What did you do to me?” You ask this.

“What? Dear one? Dear one who’s about to die? What did you want to know?”

“What kinda things did you do to me?”

“You don’t want to know exactly..?”

“I want to know everything,” says the girl child, whose name I do not know (pretend) for the course of this confession.

I settle back into my recliner. Which I think is thick and manly but you show me with your eyes that it is not, that I am not, that this chair has always been a Walmart knock off I carried it here on my back and you’ve been showing me with your eyes. Every. Day. Since.

“Well. At first it was light brushing heavy touching but first a light caress of your infant skin. Then a bibble and a bobble of my right hand, then a babble and a bubble of my left-side hand.”

“Did I complain?”

“You did not complain, at first. You laughed as if a tickle. Your reaction at the beginning of was delayed and non-specific. It’s not like, I shoved this baby carrot in your touché and you bit my hand and screamed. It was more like my fingers were part of your non-specific sensorium. A universe of lights!—How would you know which one I was turning? You took me at my name back then. You didn’t know what you were crying about. Only that life was short and sad and you didn’t know anything about misuse or abuse and unfortunately neither did I. I made myself cum using the tools I had learned as an infant: Strapping. Soaking. Breathing. Not breathing. The pain of spanking my own behind with the smooth back handle of the babysitter’s hairbrush. You want more?”

The girl captive nods.

“You sure you want more?”

She nods with tears.

“Ok—I’m gonna give it to you. Just a memory. This one comes in from the fiery left turn behind a NASCAR race gone wrong. Seven drivers burned and smashed into pieces so small that all they found were like pieces of a finger—just like 9/11—and they put those pieces into clear Ziploc™️ baggies and they gave those baggies to the families and the families bowed Japanese-style and took possession of those body fragments and they went to the morgue. But you? I sliced my fingernails so close my fingers would bleed. Pared down rough skin around my warts—I never wanted my baby sick and it’s only recently that I’ve found out genital warts are a different kind than hand and skin warts but I cleaned my fingers every time. For a while. Mostly at the beginning. Every time I used my little finger..I imagined I could fuck you to orgasm with my pinkie..of course I never did. But like a toad pod, a youngish froggy thing, you did get..stimulated..you came by a milk trail between your fatish legs and instantly I knelt before you on your sacred baby blanket and I sucked it all—I mean, I sucked you like you was ice cream! Wonderful! Counselor!! I have been blessed with this child who gives forth mana from the skies. The milk you gave was plenty, profitable, and my god has instructed me to eat the mana as this is what our people have been told to eat, every night—“ I clear my throat. “—every nightmare is really what it was. We lived in San Diego then. Read the tabloids at the grocery store learned that SoCal had been filled with them. In the sky, you couldn’t tell the difference between a real UFO, a government UFO, an Amazon Delivery™️ drone, a US government attack drone, a movie-making drone, and a Playskool™️ drone for kids. I took them all to be true. That’s why the walls in your room were covered in radio frequency shielding that’s below the egg-carton sound shielding and the windows molly bolted, plywood, double-cement eyelids and cameras at external doors, electronic locks (after a point), and all this is obsession—spent more time and energy wasting all that crap than we spent on you.” And here I deep-breathe in. “And all of this? All of this was worth it. So if I woke up, it was dark, I went to your room and figured you would wake up naturally. When you were a baby I unfastened your diaper and laid my cock between your legs and I pulled out and pushed back in, not into and out of your cunt (you were too young for that) but into the V shape formed by your legs and out of that V shape, only at the end did my penis touch the perfect lips at the seat of your saddle. And when it did, I gripped my hold on your ears and my mask fell off and you could see the real me. And what you saw was horrible. As if a lake monster. Meets LSD/Chinese dragon. Meets a Mexican wrestler’s mask. Meets my face melting off my structure—bones, skin, muscles, eyes. And I’m boning into you. And I’m holding you down. There. Has. Never. Been. Anyone. Smooth. Like. You. Never has my baby been hot and wet and red. As with the tongue of the snake I attack you. I said!: Like the tongue of the snake I attack you! And my fangs, double-pronged from my root chakra—they form a mistress, a master, a mister, or more—and I’m rubbing. Rubbing! Running on that tiny core. You have pledged your body to me, dear girl—Oh my dear dear tiny little one—thank you!—You are my crystal. You are my god. You cure me going in and kill me coming out.”

Oh My God Grammy It’s Grammy in Grammy Panties Fuck Me Please

Fuck me till my ear drops off.

Until the rage.

Wash that one crusty spot on the back of it. Wash me with alcohol, burn away every imperfection. Make me clean—the girl you saw in the porno and bob my head up and down your skinny cock while you replay pornos in your head. Just because they said he invented a word doesn’t mean it originates with him—it just means he’s the first to use it in writing (in a way that it sticks to the archive)—just because you screw me like a lightbulb doesn’t mean you’re the one who invented electricity. It all just means that you’re mine if you need me to help you. And the more you rely on my assistance, the greater part of you I own. The greater part of every distance equal to the sum of the squares or something..something grand..like a new society born of misfits and squalor..disposable..terrifying..not a mouth as we imagine but a spike..a pole..a trending of light and darkness the one bitten by the other and the other bitten by the one. The great sea wall rushing over and rushing into us bringing us freshness, capability, a wisdom from below the sea. On that day there will be no more hunger, surgery will be replaced with light, light with gifts, gifts with generosity, generosity with hope, hope with love, and love is bolstered from beneath by a light so bright it blinds the human eye.

That is what I’m talking about.

Here is what you are talking about.

A razor thin (snail if you will) pussy lips of a concubine. That you jerk it to at work below your desk spraying a fine mist of cum onto the bottom of the roof and this again and again you waste it pump me full of you, make me pregnant. Give me your child. Let me raise her (in secret) (entombed) (with a quickness). Let me teach you to see more broadly. Let men shown me their prowess. That tiny little bit of spunk. And let me show you that it doesn’t have to be this way. That I could hot you with an eyelash twiggle. Hold you upright with a flash grenade—flash! bang!! With subtlety. Only speak to the highest—ignore your fellow sufferers and make it all an offering to god in the sense of the highest one power—the highest one..who..is.

I saved a bit of rage for you.

It’s called cholera. Leprosy. Measles. The destruction of your entire species.

You let it in! You let a basic germ destroy your mind every nerve in your body and why? Because if the bug kills you, you want to die. You believe in natural survival of the fit. If for you there would be no hospitals, no doctors, no shrinks. I could fit your entire set of doctrines on a 3×5 card, folded once, slipped in my back pocket to show your god how closely we have followed your orders.

And when I gave it to you.

Let me see what will happen.

Peering into my dust bowl. Wiping tailgaters off my windshield. Squinting naked down upon the sky. Squint some more. Here’s a spyglass. There. To the left a little more. See the tiny ant? Yes! What is he saying?

Let me turn up the volume.

Turn on key clicks—there!

What’s he saying, tell me!!

He says he’s a psychopath.


He says he’s a psychopath! He says we are ruined. That our ruination came from our beginnings. That our odds were set at the outset. That we are horses, that our caretakers know us to the level of every hair on our heads. Every cell. That they (to us) are in, around, through. The ant has a pom-pom in one hand and a flamethrower in the other. He says:

“You have come to me at the turn of the tides. This form is the only one we’ve found that lets you speak to us and also let’s us be comfortable in our own skin..so to speak. You have tied yourself in an un-tie-able knot..the way silver and gold chains cut in microscopic links have a way of knitting themselves. You gotta break that shit up. Tear it to pieces. And start again. Build a chain that cannot knot itself—no matter how many trips it takes through the rock tumbler.”

The ant dances a jig, comes back to starting position. Executes a one-foot head-to-tail stationary spin. Comes back to first position. And says:

“Your rules do not interest me. Your laws. Your morals. Only in my world there is no jail. No so-called rehabilitation centers. We only have within us love and peace. Truest kindness. And we have time. We have time to play with the universe as a whole. To twist ourselves through the positions of the worm—“

“Hole up. Hole up,” I say.

“What is it?” he asks, obviously pissed at my interruption.

“If I see you as an ant—if that’s our cohabiting symbol that you think I’ll be able to handle and you feel allows you to express your personality—“

“Then what.” He smirks.

“Then you said that you have enough time to twist yourself through the positions of the worm.”

“Yes,” he smiles, a smile like Slender Man.

“So what’s the worm?—You know—describe the worm in terms I can understand.”

“Ah,” he says. Sparkle in his eye.

Then the ant pointed his flamethrower upon himself.

He revved it up and burned himself to a pile of dust.

The pom-poms picked themselves up and sang a cheer. There were no vocal chords. There was no brain. But the pink puffs sang their cheer anyway.

I wasn’t sad.

And then this voice came into my head. It was Slender Man/the ant. I had never heard voices in my head but this one was clear as day.

It said the ant was not sad either.

“Come back for me!”

“I’ll come when I’m ready!” said the ant voice who now had access to my mind.

But I heard it as “I’ll cum when I’m ready.”

That made me think of my captor—that you who sat with me on the bed. And I looked to my right. And your face opened up, gaunt lips around empty cavities.

And you went for my head—my everything—and you choked me down.

It’s Not My Right, It’s Just Something I Do

Because I have a need. Because I have this need, I sniff it out, I follow it. I hold it dear.

Because I go to the lengths, because I go to church to clear my sins. Because I pray to a god who hates me. Because I feel that hate flowing in my veins. Because I bow on knees bender and suck. That. Holy. Cock. Of yours. Oh god forgive me! Forgive me my sins, my transgressions, every misdeed, everything tainted about me. Everything sub-holy about me. Everything black as the charring of a burnt calf-leg feed on the daily pills you shoot down my gullet—my only throat for sucking, for shouting at you in languages unknown to anyone on this level, unknown pages from history depicting satan’s characters in all their holy, holy (holy sanctimony)—holy holy pieces of my underlying soul ‘coming visible underneath your lens-like eye. Coming off in charcoaled fragments of dust and funnel cakes singed to the points without any return, without any names due to the fact that these places were never uninhabited by anyone who writes or draws pictures they live inside the stones only coming out to snatch ya! If you’re the last one in line—we gotcha—simple as that. The dome releases its illusions of control it comes under a Sleeping Beauty spell it waits as I carry you (this collection of collections of you) up the mountain, singing a witches’ song, you drop into another dimension (scaring me to death) (scaring the me right out of me, scaring me so hard that you kill me by fright and it’s hard to tell whose memory was erased in the jungle, consciousness, sedimentary awareness, picturesque conditions which do not kill for I was never in them for long I was transferred to the shepherd’s memory (he holds us all with Charlie Rose’s weak weak eyes and integrated by Charlie Rose’s voice interrogated by Charlie Rose’s mind and that was it!) bang! bang! BANG!!

Charlie Rose licking my last PXSSY licking her so good. He and I are side by side and he pushes me away from the girl. And Charlie Rose grooms the girl and Charlie Rose cools her off with the back of the babysitter brush lathering and layering her many PXSSY lips her many folds of skin. Unravels her from her hair. Untangles her like the gold chain. Letting loose every knot and kink. Like a back massager. Every tangle falling out. Hitting the floor—loosened. Like the jewels hidden at the bottom of the Nile. Like the sediment hidden at the bottom of the Nile. Like the waste bucket settled at the bottom of the Nile.

Collecting us. Our pieces and consciousness. Hanging on us like a keychain. Every key a sliver of consciousness. Only the janitor holds them all. He is comfort and fairness due to his simple nature. He’s the only one we can trust to keep them all. Our counselor—comforter—has less angle, less shrewdness than you and I. That’s why we can trust him with our minds. Our magnetisms. Our high-song spiritual selves who laugh at every mention of god who laugh at every mention of the opposite of god. Who tips a nod at every such notion. Of a baby held up in offering by schizophrenic souls. Who laughs when we kill, laughs when we give birth. Whose laugh is the faceplate of a psychopath tears running in rust fingers loose (nothing clenched) (nothing tight except an alcoholic’s Lindy Hop-translatable consciousness) (nothing tight but a PXSSY taken at the right age and when it is taken such it is pretty, smooth, textural, muscular) (it runs with every texture of the world) (it runs in carpet, chicken basters, bicycle hand grips, gripping patterns on a subway platform) (and you will know it when your foot makes a slip and the soles of your shoes catch—tight!—where the rubber meets the road).

When the rubber meets the road (my little toad). You are welcome to my touches. To my pricks and my prods. I feel it’s my duty to copulate you, my emerging cunt energy. To make love and to feel your soapsud walls cleaning off the surface of my cock. Cumming inside you, conditioning your PXSS. Lather you up like a horse..or a boot. Snug—tight! The laces. Strung around my neck like a noose! That last moment! Bring on the death of me. My throat collapses like a darkling bone. Doesn’t matter how I got here—I have to find my way out like everyone else.

I Was Meant to be a Girl—A True 100% American Girl

Who liked sunflower cakes and Sousa marches. Who wore jeans cut off so high the pockets fell below the denim—skwunched together with a finger pinch right below the belly button—made to ride high and low, barely covering the #1 hole and not even covering the #2. Pretty pickings for a boy who wants to stick it. Pretty pickings for the girl who wants to lick it!

American Girls don’t get sex trafficked. That’s a problem for the far and wide beyond girls in Tanzania and South Korea—for the southern tip of Africa and the north most coast. Same continent. Right before you take your last glance over the Agean Sea, the prettiest ocean you will ever sea, then—punk!—your head in a bag (plastic, not cloth like in the movies) and you’re overboard/underboard forever. Getting slashed in the vagina with a razor gun. Slashed anywhere but the face!—they want to see your face while they fuck you. Want to imagine your dopey eyes, imagine how you used to look all bored and sitting in your classroom, some American place where girls your age are not held back as virgins but allowed to fuck their friends with no religious consequences. Not like here where we shoot you or cut your head off on the principle of fact.

Flash to a little girl, fingers all a-rage. She’s working on the plastic knots, working on her cage.

Then..pop!..off goes her head.

Quickly she is dead.

Foraging the cabinets of our mini-fridge. Foraging the drawers of my day clothing. We all wear boys’ clothes here. Nothing fits. I know from watching television that girls wear fancy clothing out in the world. And that I will never see them on another girl or feel them hang tightly on my skin—I will never seduce a boy with the shivers and the shavers of vice and conflict—waiting in a bar—never drink—never cry fire! or rape!—never electrocute the room with my presence (which I think I could do if I could get out of this place).

Fairy fairy dope dope fairy fairy dope.

I lost my skin and rope rope—lost it on a rope.

Cut to: American parthenogenesis. Random selection. Natural stop-loss, profit gating, draining the swamp. You should know who the swamp is since you live there. Should know how to set the game, the trap, force out every competitor, take everyone’s money. That’s how I do it (stop loss) (stop looking—for life) (American never-look, American blindness). The blindness has a special curve. Its own severity. Raking through the darkness. Raking through time.

I sit with my companion through the space of years. Taking baths when we were only babies. Showering and getting our genitals over washed by the men.

And it occurs to me—

—I live in a house full of men. Not quite a full house but three-to-one. I am the only girl. The only one without a dick. All that stroking and stroking. I do it differently. Girl stroke my pretty pouch underneath the silent covers pushing down boy shorts looking up out the window—the bars, the glass, the heavy metal sheets on the outer side of my universe and up there I feel the image of the sun, of the moon at night, where I can see the sliver of it when it’s whole where is it in the sky I know this from television. From Carl Sagan, who I know is dead. From Neil deGrasse Tyson, a far cry from Sagan. From Michio Kaku. I followed all their stars from my window seeing only the night sky on the slivers of my magazine—that solid sheet of plastic which granted me my views.

You have probably never been held in a room your entire life before.

You have probably never gotten out and ran the streets of Southern California, with a white man and a black man chasing after. With store owners and passersby illuminating your path as you ran by their shops. Trying to help—but the wrong person! Trying to help me get captured again. Sent back to the hole in the room in the house that already looks fucked up with its windows boarded with steel!! Doesn’t anybody think that looks strange? Doesn’t anyone think that there might be people in there? Run us over!—And I used to think to call the police but they are on the other side!

Now that I’m out I see!: The police when you’re captive are here to get you out. But once you’re out, those same forces exist to trap me back in jail. If I prostitute. If I sleep beneath a bridge—that’s illegal and they’ll take me back to jail. If I avoid the spikes, if I manage to sleep between them, that’s illegal too. It’s not aloud. And if they find me they will catch me and put me in a cell. When I get out, I have to find a place to sleep that is not illegal, not ill licensed. And with no money there isn’t such a place. The halfway houses? Every one run by rapists. Every one is worked to the brim with shady mothetfucking pimps who catch you coming out in the morning—guys clocking your ever mood every moon sign you make every cycle of your period they know—kept in tiny notebooks—they have you pegged for work before you ever begin.

Pegged for which days, for which nights.

Have a spot for you in one of their houses.

Pretty girls in general get to sleep on the couch. Ugly girls/girls in training sleep on the floor. This is pimp rules. The street assignments work the same way. If you’re a butch girl you cap the end of the block, almost never work at all. But that’s my freedom—that’s my safety. Some other mack tries to run one up my ass—I’m covered. That’s what a pimp should do, is cover my ass up from some cagey bro who covets me for his game.

I know it seems stupid but that’s what we have to do.

I have to cover my ass, work as many cars as possible, come back, and do it all again.

Me It’s the Me—Me!—It’s the Badlands

Not the badlands in name, the badlands in shape and function and form. Pricked my upper thigh with a pinprick. Lollipop. There’s a gauge there. If you look, you can see where my position is lodged in the crack by the window. Lust is there—that is where I lust for you, dear captive. Oh Captive My Captive! Oh holy skies ramped from a cartoon death—a dozen eggs, each taken out for every time I cum in your sweet honey pot. Leave it creamy—“Don’t touch it now!”—I never even had a decent salary much less a PXSS in the garage. Take her for a spin twice a day, three times a day, one time seven times in a single day, seven banging eye-goggling cum-squirting physical realms. Ever once collapsing you and expanding you to the tune of my cock. Growing you with me. With midnight sand. With me powdering your legs, your ass, your cunt! I have prevailed over my sand castle. Installed in it a dictator. Of you, my dear—of you, your riptide squalls, your package within a package, your unbeatable terror muffin. Of my razor blade above you—at your neck!—behind your back potentially slicing your nerves but I am careful, in actuality, to never damage you, to never ever damage your skin. Your pink and blue arteries, capillaries, blood flowing like a city beneath your skin. Shallow train tracks you still wouldn’t want to be pushed beneath. You still wouldn’t want to meet that train force to face. Face to face. Head to head. Arguing in the halls of Congress who should police our freedoms in this age of technology.

When I come outside, this is the vision that strikes me:

A cold-case freezer (Thermos(tm)) and my cat is pulling birds from its open top. Spreading them. Stretching them. Laying them on the floor. And I see her daily catch and am traumatized. Bird after bird, squirrel after squirrel. And after each one, she looks to me to see if I approve, gathers my blessing, and the next snapshot in the stream is if my lovely cat eating raw red meat from its quarry. And I’m cracking my beer feeling superior to all this as a pterosaur flies over, hooks me through the shoulders, wrenches me free and I lost my beer cozy! The pterosaur has no interest and spends no time getting to know my house. She only has eyes for me.

She only has eyes for me (technically).

In reality this is what she has in mind:

A technorati fatigue of camel fur that keeps on getting in my mouth. You say: Close your mouth! and I say: No! I’m keeping my thoughts in here, lying in a train car, lying over a steam vent, hidden notebooks (old school—no power), hiding my ideas in an armpit—hiding them up my asshole for no one to find and only kept around (hidden) so that if I forget my own philosophies, they’ll be there. In a hot wet hole up my own bottom. Where my mom used to take my temperature. Hidden in there like that.

I tell you my revolutionary theories and you grow bored of me. I tell you my revolutionary plans and you shush me with one finger, sealing my plate, my palate inactive. My partial self incompleted—stunted—bumped back into place my a mother who is half-dead—who sits in the upstairs window of her apartment, leaning out, smoking, ready to die.

See her, but never believe her.

She isn’t ready to face that half the world owns slaves.

That slaves are here to kill us, granting us enjoyments (like fucking a kid viscous, keeping her locked in the room, with her co-captive—we told them they can fuck anytime they want!). But they don’t fuck. The little one is gay, we think—but what chance have they had to figure that out!? They haven’t had any—I think that’s the answer you’re looking for. They have had no chance to figure it out—none. No silent moments of freedom—even inside their own heads. None.

We race them.

Fuck-face each and see which of us can come first.

Busting a nut straight down your throat, girl. Bust a nut an inch deep into your ass. Thinking of the one who did it to me. Thinking of my dad. And I am trapped here doing the same thing. Never had a heart to heal. Never had time to heal! My bread was baked with a plastic key hidden inside it, and the lucky one always got the key. Thus I stick marbles up your ass, girl, and shake them around before waking you.

Your hole is glory to me.

And it makes me forget (for a moment) that I come from you—that we come from the same place, you and I, of being treated like this by your father (or father figure, in your case).

My father is dead.

But he’s alive within me.

That’s who you dream with when you ask for an extra cup of juice. Someone terrible (even to himself)! Someone who will stand up, go to the kitchen, open the refrigerator door, and pour you that extra cup of juice coming up with ways to punish you. Ways to kill you (just a little bit). When I unlock you and see you looking up at me with those sympathy-inducing eyes. Tear in your hand. I hand you the extra juice.

Close the door in your face.

And outside the room I am counting on my hand the ways and means by which I will punish for that juice.

It’s important. For me. Not to call you by your name. Or any name with regularity. It’s part of my psychiatric plan for all of you. So I never start to care.

It Was Never Planned So I Didn’t Bring My Pocketbook

Nor, with it, my sundries including my Escape Kit Meant For Kidnappings. Including a nail file. A miniature hair dryer for drying my captor’s hair and—whoops!—dropping it in the bath with him to wash him at the cellular level. Wash all the trouble out of him. Wash him to oblivion while I’m sitting on the living room carpet—screaming!

Screaming with all the hand kicks and leg throws—not innocent myself (never not at all) spying on him through his keyhole but toward the end it didn’t matter—they kept us only semi-locked in—I could have escaped with a Q-tip and a ham sandwich and when I was done I’d still have the sandwich.

Near the end there were delivery men inside our house who could see through our door (ajar) who had glimpses of us naked it was like our captors wanted to be caught and when they finally left that house a few days later there were cops all up and down the street—the only problem, I guess, is that my men had left us half an hour before—didn’t even say goodbye—just threw 18 years down the toilet and the police took my companion and me in for questioning then let me go (for he was younger) and where they would normally put a number I scratched in a blank and went out of that office as surely as a bank robber and never sought them out again.

Freedom/frenetic: A hose on full draft. My pony imagination to carry me forward. I am a warrior: I jump left, I jump right. I sleep under the boardwalk tonight. My horn guides me: To water. To safe places. I poke a person with it to test them. Test their character. Test their intentions. And a few days later you are there, my companion, subtle arrival/appearance. I pretend you have powers but soon I’m no longer pretending. You do have powers. Powers of protection. Powers of defense. Of attack. We made it this far. Now we’ve got to make it a little more.

When I see you we do not talk. I check your skin for tics. Fleas. Spider bites. Safe you to a place where no one will find—back back far beneath the boardwalk. Where it’s covered in cheap latticework and I open my bag and bring out oranges, a peach, two bananas and we eat. Bruised, stolen fruit to be the staples of our diets for as long as this book goes. The occasional McDonald’s Dollar Menu cheeseburger. No TV. No drugs. No pills. No medicines of any kind especially ones we don’t know by name or sight. Those first nights we slept huddled together. It was only later we got sleeping bags and backpacks and boots.

Boots (stolen themselves) (stolen from us) that are too expensive are no good. Must have dingy-looking boots of no cost to us and sleep in them at night to reduce inventory leakage.

You might think there is a code among homeless people. There is no code. When it comes down to it, every other homeless person will rob you to the sticks of your legs. Rob the food right out of your mouth before you swallow. Everything must be hidden. Everything. Down to the emergency 20 dollars you store inside your sock, inside your shoe. You have to tape it to your skin inside your underwear. Tape it between your butt cheeks so if someone rips your undies off they still won’t see it. I mean—that’s just how that goes.

The oasis of McDonald’s. Ordering from a computer screen. Getting every little bit of goodness out of that three dollars you’ve saved. Sitting there in the windowed booth with you, my companion, both with mouths full, chewing slowly, no idea where we’re going next but—for a moment—comfortable to have Dollar Menu cheeseburgers in our cheeks, hot—a slice of cheese!—and warm ground beef coating the esophagus all the way down into my belly, where I follow the sensation, feeling my muscles contract—enjoying it, loving it—enjoying its smell when it comes from my anus dropping down down down into the stolen seconds sitting on some toilet—a minute of silence, of me being alone in the Barnes & Noble.

If I had my kit with me I would never have been caught up. Caught up in this game! Which isn’t really about the logistics of saving money without a bank, working a job without a place to sleep, finding a place to live that I can afford on one job..two jobs..three?

I sit. Done pooping. Letting my bowels relax. Such a comfortable feeling. Knowing there is nothing left inside me to shit out. Feeling emptiness, crossing my thumbs one over the other, leaning my head back upon my shoulders.

I had a slight understanding of Buddhism which is what I thought I was doing, focusing on my digestion. Feeling the feels inside my body. Breathing deeply. And I did this in the Barnes & Noble bathroom almost daily. Imagining myself a guru leading a meditation retreat at some remote island (where I lived) and I would be The One Whose Life Had Changed So Much. The one with perfect poise. Whose body, like a dancer’s, limbered fresh each moment. Whose composure, each second striking a sculptural pose, was long and lean and neat.

Did I Know What I Did Was Wrong?

Did I know, when I grabbed a girl I had been stalking, knocked her chin upward—damaging the teeth—that what I was doing was wrong? Of course I did. Of motherfucking course I did.

I am in a battle with good and evil. But I know what evil is!

Of course I knew, when I gave her the shot that would carry her (in sleep and darkness) into my house. Into the children’s bedroom. Into her sleeping bed. Tucking her under her sheets. Cupping her PXSSY in one hand—cupping behind her neck with the other. Feeling that fatherly feel. Somewhere between the girl as my daughter. Somewhere between the girl as my friend. Somewhere between her as an infant, her as a pre-teen, her as an eighth grader. Writing essays for school—she’ll certainly have plenty to write about.

How I Was Kidnapped as a Child and Taken for Rape Purposes and Such

By [insert your kid’s name here] The Wunderkind of the Ages, Age [insert your kid’s name here]

I can’t tell you how many times I raped her on the first day. It was months of waiting—years, really, to get this particular kid. You had raised her as the perfect band-camp girl. I can’t say her name here but I can tell you it was Lindsey or Lindsay—there I have told you her name and yet I haven’t. I have not told you her name! Have in my slyness given you alternatives so similar they tell you without you ever knowing.

But, yes, “the rapes.” Tied to the headboard and tied to hooks I installed—you know—here and there—twiddle and twaddle—fiddle faddle fiddle faddle of the wooden paddles still ripe with splinters pulling down your panties—glimpse of your PXSSY!!—turning you over spreading your ass cheeks—getting hard at the sight of your childish asshole next to the paddle my cock got so hard I took it in one hand while my other wiggled a finger up inside your be-hind and removed it—took in a deep breath through my nose and I almost passed out the scent was so profound.

Then I held your butt cheeks apart with my left and spanked you (oh so hard!) with the paddle in my right. The stimulation was so hard I let go your butt cheeks and took my cock up with my left stroking striking stroking striking your ass gets red and red and redder! I couldn’t tell if this was happening or a memory it all ran together like twine. Psychopath in my actions. My mind. In my series of paddles. My series of orgasmic twitches—that’s all I had become—a series of assholes, series of paddled butt cheeks, of course. And who was my first?

My first was the school principle on the last day of first grade. I had chased a girl underneath some construction-crew playthings. And I had pulled down her panties as fast as I could once I’d chased her in there. It was exactly the way I looked (except more beautiful) and I pushed down my pants and jerked it to this beautiful girl, then stuck it in her, holding down her arms and saying to her: “I will kill you if you say something. I will kill you if you tell.”

After that—What’s that? Did she scream?

She didn’t scream. At all. When I was done playing with the thing between her legs, she left the concrete tube, falling to the dirt, and wandered slowly up to the sidewalk which is where the bad kids sat after they did something bad. This was the first of many Lindsays. She sat there willfully where the bad kids sat and our teacher came to her asking her what she had done wrong and she said something to the teacher I never heard.

Only the next day did I get it up enough to talk to Lindsay.

In gym class I cornered her at the water fountain. I put my hand over the water spout. Felt its iceling cold on the cup of my hand. By this time I expected she told teachers, principal (who I was sure didn’t care), mother, father, older sister, piano teacher, best friend, seat partner in school bus, driver of school bus, pet dog..anyone.

But I asked her about all those and she said, “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Let me get my water.”

“Oh, I’ll let you get your water, sis—I will let you get your water in good time. Just tell me what I want to know.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” she says to the spring. Then taps her fingers on the fountain’s metal sides. “I. Didn’t! Tell. Anyone.” On this last word Lindsay whispers it. We’re in a detective film. Lindsay is the witness. I’m the detective. I ask the questions. She gives the answers. Not that are true—but—that are the answers I want her to say. The answers that fit with my version of the truth.

This leaves two questions: One, what did Lindsay say in answer to my query at the water fountain. And two, how did it feel for me to fuck my present-day Lindsay’s roiling anus.

On the question of fucking Lindsay’s anus: Rotten good. That’s how I felt when I fucked her. That is how she felt to my dick. The kind of feeling you get when you steal from Walmart: A little bit bad and a whole lot of conflicted good—which is the only kind of good I know. That much more exciting a good than regular good. That bad-good that torments me every day—keeps me going for weeks after.

On the question of what Lindsay said to me at the water fountain while I intimidated her in word and deed? Simply this:

She said: “I checked your Facebook and you’re nothing of the man you seem. They should add a relationship status that includes the text, ‘I will fuck your dirty cunt in the tubes beneath the playground. I will take your name, chewing it as you walk away in shame, with fire between your legs.’ “

Mini Me Cloaked in the Darkness of the Waterfall

Cloaked in robes of light. Swathed for the mystical you meeting the mystical me I see us as lightness figures hide us in light form and reform us in your teachings I have already left in mind only in name only upside down is right side up is the calling card of the thing when the thing is called. Why are they interested in us what do they hope to deserve? They wish to disassemble me to reverse-engineer me to figure how I work. It’s for their history lesson. We are like the pyramids are to us. We have to reverse it after we came back in time because we like to know—to believe—that someone prior to us had intention, had a love of art and computation. Though it is difficult to believe that, say, an impressionistic painting means much to someone who never saw the thing with our eyes, with our three-dimensional way of seeing. But apparently they do—apparently they are building a museum of the universe (or even something broader) when I hear you coming: BANG! BANG BANG!! On my fragile door. The door opens. You come in and I love the beerish smell in you it means I’m in for a wild night of fucking! and fricking! and fracking! my body between the sheets hoping to hide myself—instead making my buttocks visible in relief, small cheeks forming someone older and larger in your mind, someone who can shred to take it. Someone who can take it like a man! Someone these old belts will only rile up, strike back, challenge the dominator. Challenge the dominator, the one who comes in through the window at night. Whose red eyes scared you once. Whose claws and bodily fingers scratched his head in an all-to-human gesture. And while the redness in my snatch is agitated from below, from my Mother Earth, by late night it is agitated from above. I am stunned and stun-beamed into a cordial setting of the ultimate Mad Party Tea House there’s the joker face shriveled Jared Leto is the only one I haven’t seen it’s too new upon the television screen it’s hard to comprehend how he could become a character from little baby Jared in Fight Club (that’s the one we’ve seen for brilliant eyes me and my companion eyes wide open mouths agog! we saw him pummeled and punished to the brink of death. But never punished ie he always came alive ie he always took apart his seams and below that was a costume which he took off and below that another costume. Below that yet another costume which is red (the demon red) with a black-and-white devil who is like the noisemaker in a Clive Barker novel’s cover the devil never dresses in red (stupid!) she is every duality humans can think of hence the black. And the white. Equally represented. Like a checkerboard. Penciled in dotted lines a dash! of light like a flash re-presented to my brain a wand! like Harry Potter’s dark side the side that was always known of in the movies if you simply turn the negative over and shine the light from the projector through the front then through the film’s back then across the smoky auditorium then to the screen projected high above the viewers saying a message that no one there can hear. That is the way of the devil: Crossed back upon itself making light from dark and dark from light and all the while disappearing into the dark hole at the center of the dark man/light man’s ear. If you hear me say “the dark man” that’s what I mean by “devil.” If you hear me say “the light man” that is what I mean by your concept of god but it isn’t a sympathetic god (to you) it is just the repeater and the reverser working together by powers of two to create wonderful beauty to create the back of the tapestry to create holes you can never really see. To create holes in me. And those are holes like from the knitting. From the yarn work that is done by the creator and the destroyer of the devil himself. Of the devil herself. Of the devil who claims no sex and where almost all that happens is happening through starlight..symphonies..rhapsodies..fugue. On dusty realms and fire-fighteries made of hydrogen atoms. I don’t know much but I do know that along the mothership they teach us what we need to know..a physics of the universe. And they teach it so that even I can understand. So that all of our consciousnesses can understand, teaching in pictures with unspoken words in a way that my dim cousins, for example, would all get it perfect clear. I mean that’s if I had cousins. But I consider my companion a cousin and someone aboard one of the ships showed me my babies at 18 and they had alien faces and alien brains and yet (still) somehow they are strangers to me and the half-similarity, half-distance between me and them is (at base) frightening. Frightening as so you would be if your mother appeared to you one day after you had never seen her in this life and she said, “My name is Sharon,” and you knew. Somehow you knew that this was her. And the last time you saw her was aboard this very ship. Suckling you from her alien tits. And somehow I was then left for child traffickers because of the Prime Directive: Don’t disturb the childling civilization. Do not make yourselves known. But that’s not what happened—not in any way. I was left here, slave to two civilizations, and me cursed to know there nature of not only the first but also the second. Dually slaved. Dually noted. And dually in the cock fest of both.

Walls of Water Falling from the Mesa in Our Backmost Yard

She speaks of cock fests. Of tributaries. Of all these little rivers of desire conjoining in our back yard. For a tiger festival. Albino tigers. Tiggers. Rhyming companions are the product of her dysphoric brain—Not of reality!—not of matter, of stuff!—Only the mettle of her mind the private faire created between hemispheres produced in the stockroom of her creativity—humming along (swimmingly) humming along with that baseless brain. Ironing me (all the humps out)—middling across her gusset torn to me thrown to me photographing happening from the neighbors’ yard I can see your zoom lens from here!

I can see the zoom lens from here.

Can see that motherfucker.

Snapping pics of our curtains. The inactivity of a bricked-in wall. With infrared—nothing. No infrared that I know of can scale a cinderblock wall.

Outside they have: Nothing.


A Minotaur of arms, legs, a snout that could root us all out! My co-conspirator taking over the black boy got his legs up in the air this one going this way, that one going that way. His toes a constellation of god! Sprinkles tinkles ants are running quickly—quickly running ant-nose up a hose he had attached to the black boy’s anal socket pumping water in, pumping water out. At breakneck speeds. One force or action suffering the reverse command: Another force or action of the water spraying! from between the boy’s legs into the air of the room landing on the tops of everything giving not a fine mist but an ultra fine coating of feces water causing the entire room to go global with this medicinal coating a thick globular spray is what we want. Coatings of E. coli bacterial limbus of the first order limbus of the second order munching zombie brains ad nauseam when the shit goes down we will have everything we want, everything we need in here. I’ll be able to rock the corpse of my victim, my voiceless friend. Then we will really have each other—no one else—cuddled together in the branches of a magnolia tree—huddled together! in that most climbable of trees. Your skin facing the trunk. My skin facing your back so if anyone shoots at us their bullets will have to pass through me—first—then with what is left of their velocity they can pass through you. Then with what is left of their velocity they can pass into the bark of the magnolia tree and lay velocity to rest in a private oak. Ness. Of the family. Nessie. Loch Ness. That is from where I am from. From my hometown of infinite smallness. Infinitely imagined sock puppet for adult swim. For scratches on my forearm. Dug there and placed there by a child—a child’s play, victim hood—everything you can not know of me. When I take you in the bathroom with the back of my hand. Swallow your neck nape inside my red mouth. Felonious Monk in the spidervale living room—it’s just as fun as it can be! Your floor straps overhang the coffee table. Your companion’s neck strap as he’s proving being loud. And bad. All the actions of a boy who wants to stay a slave I catch him sullying up to your cage looking for a bump. That infamous bump! That infamous lump on your back I concocted upon your back. By scraping by scratching by facing by fatching by back-fat having you are my car, my lowly Model T, my well-designed and ultimate vehicle planned for obsolescence in a hundred years. Where I’ve stripped you—beyond the skin—stripped you into a fat-back pageant—molded thy life into the deadly self who is having fun now and who will not remember this later. Forced you into never remembering—forced you into never knowing that. When my roll is slowed—when the lights go out behind me—you will be the first to see that this is nothing but another version of me—another satellite. Another fucked-up version this with its broken claw—it’s just the fucked-up version of me—it’s the me while I’m fucking (you, my dear—so give it a rest, ok?) while I’m fucking you (the fucked-up version of you) (who is fucking the fucked-up version of me) who is fucking..I forgot who I’m fucking forgot who is beneath me it’s your companion boy I’m going at his asshole for a minute you’re holding his legs and stroking his head and twisting his nappy hair around your little finger on your left hand it is the one of least control the one I least control and therefore one you least control. It seems to control us—to make itself known inside our wills—He has written himself inside our wills and testaments. Or taken himself from there. Inside-out boy. Boy with the broken anus. Boy with Shit Falls spraying himself proudly throughout the room. He has made himself known throughout the room. He is the guest whose essence precedes himself. Laughing. Getting the jump on us all. The soap suds method of getting to the center of—rage!—of the Tootsie Roll pops. Of the center of my rage-filled cage of the center of my caring (of which you’ve had ample trade whistles of mine for you to record) of which I think I have given sufficient samples to the court. Examples sufficiently court-like for a court-like court. Walls of mesa falling court-like in our back yard.

The tryptophan taking me over.

For a dull and boring nap.

My Petit Fours Ran Crazy-Style and Run Me Out of the House

I haven’t space for a wood-clock haven’t even had space for my dinner. Attempting something complicated in the kitchen with my hands tuned to the browser on captor’s phone, him checking every minute to see that I’m not SOSing the police or some shit.

He picks up the phone and flips through every app to see that I’m only on cookery.com and my local notepad. That all I am attempting is cooking my petit fours looking up the French translation of certain words with an apron ‘round my neck around my waist we don’t get out of the bedroom much so I’m enjoying the hell out of this.

Cup of water.

Two cups flower.

Half a cup sugar—make that three-quarters that! Make it a whole cup.

And creepy is staring at my legs, the sides of my body through the open apron. Through the bottom slip of a wrist. His fingers on my belly I guess I will never convince him that this is what I want to do with myself. With my life. That I live to see Rachel Ray perform experiments in the kitchen. That I’ve memorized her ingredients (half of them). Memorized her outfits. Memorized her little humphs and puphs every little sound she uses to navigate around her cook-speak. I listened to Rachel like she was my sister, my savior, and all you ever did was touch me through holes, in, my, dress.

Touch my bootie—that’s what you say. Touch my bootie—that is what we all say.

Regulate the bootie—that’s what you say. Regulate my bootie—that’s what you say to me.

I throw a little ass at you. Your subterranean finger pokes. We’ve been at this long enough that I don’t even know how sick that is. Me throwing you a little ass. Stuck at throwing the angle of Gauss. As if I was da Vinci too. I must be The Girl Who Has Learned the Most From a Single Room. The Girl Who Became a Polymath out of television and rapes. My PXSSY in display in a kitchen while I cook petit fours in perfection. Better than a French-trained cook. Give me the exam—I’ll take it. What? Do the French have some kind of rating system that graduates you into not a French trained or a French trained cook and if you get the latter you are sprocketed into the sky with the award around your neck.

Swinging with good graces.

Amplified in the deep tonalities.

Bass boost-ed up in my earbuds they got me a tiny pair. Slipped me one of the old iPods that plays nothing but noise. If you hook it up to the TV that noise becomes static—nothing I could ever communicate through. We are aliens in space making visitations upon animals (tagging them all the time) (just for fun we want to learn about them).

And we are the subjects of our aliens—they cap and tag us daily.

They say it’s one in a hundred but really it’s more like one in four. Or three in four. We were never meant to never know about those nighttime visits. Never meant to think them fabulatory cycles/events—but no!—we were always supposed to know. Supposed to know what is and isn’t a dream. Supposed to not be afraid of our nightmare visions of red eyes and spindly fingers and sharp instruments poked inside our bodies. We were always supposed to know.

Always supposed to someday say, “We are taking our place amongst the gods.”

“We accept that we are children of genetic mutation—an experiment that sets every one of us free.” Free of slavery by becoming a space. Free from petit forms of economy. Whatever forms of unlimited energy can come to every one of us but we always pause clinging to oil and gas. We must seem so wed to fossil fuels and so scared of here there being some slavenly poor to fill in as automatons. To serve the rich food at restaurants as the rich become poor in one generation suddenly the billionaires become zero-naires the rich become one brightness coin that is worth all or birthing that ever motivates you. The coin thinks itself bright. Thinks itself into a coin at all who fools every sap who looks upon it the coin has none of the natural properties of one or bright or coin—it is the opposite of mute in these ways. And if you try to give me one bright coin, every rich will object it. Every billionaire and trillionaire will stand up and scream. They will exemplify “rage”—will exemplify “out of rage (an outrage)—they all at once exemplify “powerlessness” even though to the mountain we are all simply “man”—each of us a slave to the sun, each of us due a slip to die by our maker—or maybe to his maker.

Monitored by a ship to die.

Sailors in our atmosphere.

We have been coming for you for so long we know every hair on the count of your head. Ever finger of your print. Every smell of you—they know me! Every sound my voice makes even when I’m not speaking—all those flips and gurgles. Every menacing growl. It’s like I’m your playing. But I have my own feelings. You try from your captor waves not to frighten me but you come into my room each night to fuck me—to use my body like a teddy bear. That’s what we are to you? Entities who dry fuck a teddy bear.

You are entities (from the future—come back to the past to collect data on the construction of some machine) who decided while you were here that some of our people attracted you like Hello Kitty(tm) and you extended your trip to vacation on Earth—invisible when you want, coming down to my room from your bedroom escaping light and reaching your extended claw down under the covers, down under my panties to feel the warm and tasty juice that comes—only—from the fruit between my legs.

I Got Two Sides..And They Both Friends

Prince said it; I live by it. Got my dualities in order. Non-dualities, too. I meditate twice a day (on the regs). Play my bass. Feed the cats. Feed the kids. Stop my victim for a natural fuck in the early eve’. Twist her arms around her like Gumby—fucking a green inflated monster who is bendy as a ballerina. Bendy girl. Sexy girl. She refuses to be sexy for me now that I’ve tagged her a couple thousand times. Refuses to present to me the glory I expected, stalled for, paid for, and was delivered. Glorious for a few times an age. Stepped between me and her my co-conspirator—I guess you can know his name it’s Frank. Frank stepped between us, flopped his dick out, flopped it on the bed. Yeah, Frank fucked her a few times (even though he’s gay)—this probable type seems silly to you, future reader, but it was extremely important to homo sapiens of the time of which I speak. Bleak imagination—nothing like you’ve developed since. Nothing of the liquidity of brains of your people. Nothing of the smashing IQ. Nothing of the few extra organs you’ve got rid of—nothing of the one extra organ you replaced them with. Sex in the future is much more a question of size. Not a question of age but a question of willingness and size—you may think we’re mostly moral people but it’s like the man who points upward at an airplane and says, “Is it good or evil?”—“Well. It’s both!” Most of the people on board are neither good or evil. They live in an other-directed moral middle ground and don’t even think about problems of good and evil. A few of the people on board are decidedly good—A few are decidedly evil. The plane itself? Usually used for good. Sometimes used for evil. You know? That’s how morality is, he told me.

He came to me in whispers. He told me: Listen more to what you want to hear me say. Listen more to what you want to make me say. I am the alien in the mirror, sunken within your own features, lying dormant inside of you! Dormant inside your own body. I am unavoidable (as long as you’re here)—I come from you. I taught you abduction but you never mastered the art of returning the person to their surroundings—the moment you left them. You say, Don’t you mean the point, the position where you found them. And I say, To travel through space is to travel through time. And the opposite is true. To travel through time is to travel through space. You’ll forgive me my aphorisms while I mix this dog food to feed my girl. Slurp it up, bitch—slurp that food up with your tongue!

That’s more or less the treatment she got from me. Snapping photos with her teeth of her partner (Polaroids). Longhand written the fake name of her co-victim for inclusion in “the book” which is just a large set of photos to show people in the McDonald’s booth where we always go we sit we talk to people show them pictures of their faces while suggestively incriminating it’s not exactly a slam-dunk when it comes to making a prosecution. You’ve got my book of little babies? That could be anything—It’s not exactly evil within itself.

And the man across the table flips the page. Flips the page. Eyes look greedy. Tongue licking the corners of his mouth. He turns the page. Looks at all the kids I have (by proxy). Look at all the children I control. Not a single one of them has had a model upbringing—their parents didn’t pay enough attention to any of them and that’s how we got them into this book.

It should be called the book of death.

A book of kids who never lived.

A book of lives I own—called into question my own morality. Lifting the clear page to insert the girl’s boy companion. Thinking about selling him. He’s not much good for me. Only to my co-conspirator whose ass I would gladly land in jail except he would implicate me. That is the essence of our brotherhood. That is the essence of our skinniness, our human multiculturalism, the essence of our desire, the essence of our holiness (as in full of holes), that is the essence of our worship of the amateur body filling holes—essence—filling holes with plugs—essence—infinitely plugging holes—essence—with plugs that’s all I am without you (a useless plug filling holes—essence) a bottle-stopping motion sound effects physical sensation it fills my sensorium with pleasure even as it washes you with pain. Learning to enjoy your pain the looks you carry with you—just underneath your core it is a blessing from you landing on me—blessing—which is a—blessing—dumped from the people under the stairs on my head in love my word is true (to me) that word is truly what I mean to say I do love her in a father sort of way in that covet sort of way I love her inside her PXSSY inside her PXSSY realm she dotes in me heavy for the ages she takes my arm—puts hers inside it—she depends on me for everything—for food, for water—I provide for her—as such I am her god, her alien friend. Red eyed and calm as a glacier. When you move, you move but when I move it is though I have a hundred years between your..one..state.

This is Girl Voice Please Hear Me Roar

Above your analogies and meta-analogies, rise up my voice claiming I am person, hear me roar. Hear me scream and shout and figure it all out. Hear me sing soft and slow. Hear me as that voice underneath your pillow. Hear me as the strong sunlight and the dirty moon—cool with alternate voices rampant. Cool as the pain in your tooth. Threatening to make you do the surgery on my own. To take upon myself the first pliers, scissors, rock. Angling for your indecision. Some day you forget to lock the door. If that ever happens. If that ever happens I will swing it outwards dealing a massive blow to your nose into your brain. Into your throat. Your mouth. And out onto your Eat at Joe’s crabby crab shack plastic napkin—the blood and the everything.

Let’s talk about that everything.

In terms you are too afraid to use.

When it rises, someday. When it rises tearing sheet of flesh off my broken arms. When everything but my soul is left behind, every other part of me torn to bits with hooks like in Hellraiser. That leaves the magnetic center of me to break free, to wallow, to stay. And all that’s on your napkin are the organs of me: spleen, heart, tongue—all filled with blood. Filled with my universal donor type I give!—My entire life given to you daily on a slab—My flea-torn mattress it’s not exactly what the Roman’s would do—Not exactly what you would do if you were in Rome—But it’s close—And that’s all that matters.

All that matters is the blood parts of me you can have.

As I lie on the consecration slab, I lie in wait of you.

Trying to spin together all the death blots of my former body I rise four feet above the surface of the bed. My soul does. And my body turns over so I’m looking down on your back and your upturned face. Looking down on your butt cheeks squeezing squirming trying to get that little peen hard enough to enter my body from its top then you squeeze it into me and I feel you with my body and I feel you with my out-of-body millionaire.

A million miles of fucking measured along the length of your penis. Over and over and over again.

How many miles did you fuck me? Get it hard. Get it straight out. Then measure along the top side and multiply by three or four times a day times the measure of inches. Times the number of times I swallowed you whole. Times the number of times you entered my butt. Times the times you entered my mouth. Times the number of times you let me out to make a sandwich and it cost me a ride on your dick.

I think I must have been the only pussy you got for years.

I was young enough when you purchased me from the street that I never had the reflex to escape—not until five or so—not until managed and bought for me by the TV. Not until commercials and wildlife programming got me loosed to travel the world. Then (forever pressed into my mind) David Attenborough comes to the screen and it comes to my daily routine that me as a person and my life in the room—in the house—is totally not normal.

Not-normal like I have never seen anyone else live like this.

Not-normal in that aside from in sitcoms I’ve never seen anyone else living in one room.

My life is not normal in that this house is a cage. Life is not normal in that inside the house I live within another cage. That I have never seen the real world—not on television, not in here. It isn’t normal in that I only have one real friend—and when did he get here? Yes: When? Did he come before or after? How long were they keeping him—a boy—a man! A man gets strong. A young man can beat an older man down. Would you save me too?

Would you even think of me on your way out the door, my baby boy!?

My entire concept of love is from my baby boy in the next bed.

When we disagree I worry that no one loves me. After that he sees I am teary in the eyes. And then he comes to me, my feet bunched up against my butt. My butt bunched up against the mattress. He puts his arms around me. From the front. He lifts my head with his head. Looking into my eyes. And he says he loves me. He says we will be friends forever but I wonder if that’s even true. Is he gonna stay with me forever? That’s what I need to know.

I’m hurting. I told my counselor. My therapist. My half-wise one. He showed me a new world—once I stumbled upon his—and he shows me a half-failed life in his other dimension. By telling me about his life. As example. As criticism. I’m about as lost in his office on the way out as I was on the way in. Appearing and disappearing. Mysteries sinking to Atlantis depth. The pressure builds beneath my nose and I say the silliest song possible as my suit submerges me going down down down.

I float past sea horses (some of them bioluminescent) past octopuses who blow bubbles at my face and I gather them in to me, pretending to eat them, breathe them, take them in and out them out (the clearest senses in which we love something—to be a part of it).

I am lost on the other side of the glass.

Pressing my fingers against it.

As hard as I humanly can.

Making the tips of my fingers white.

Looking at all of you, reading me as loud as you can. The whole museum crowd watching me swim. Pointing. Looking. Being half amazed half scared with imaginations blaring.

You Have Taught Me This

To run from an undercover. To run zig-zag. To be nameless on paper, never in person. To wear a low hat. To save you from facial recognition. To wear hoodies—even in the summer—to wear them naturally, like that’s how I was born (wearing a hoodie in the midst of June). Like that’s how I was born, wearing leather gloves taught to understand your learning level like if I say I’m writing an novel, that will invite another question. But if I say I’m writing a story that will do for your age level six, then it’s good till seven and then you’ll have to pick a new name, a new color for your box. And by the time we replace your new color for your box, I’ll be there like the cards in Alice painting the roses red. Painting then, the roses red. For the beauty of all that is said. You have to remember, Alice, that Alice’s journey to the top was never easy, it was Always Outnumbered, Never Outgunned, it’s always the underdog who gets her switch in the end. Someday you’ll be walking down a street in London, swanking that ass, and I’ll be back in the valley our therapies will have had the opposite effect you will have freed yourself from me and you’ll be a hot-ass woman where I will be cowering in the lobby after seeing my lady and she will be upstairs in her office marking me down marking down my evils and possible future transgressions and cursing her god for me—cursing me for my future wrongs. Cursing me for my current present. Cutting me for every time I ever fucked you—for every time I might have touched beside your panties (it’s hard and every moment is a terror) (it’s a paraphilia) every time I let my finger slip inside—your panty roe l—a tomb of forgotten wastes—birth wastes!—the nickel-weighted form of a mass representing chemistry from my junior year. Representing numbers on D&D play sets. Conditioning your pussy every time I cum. Conditioning you to want me to condition you. Into the past? Into my repast? Can I attend without the purpose of you? Attend it in my mind? Can a person repast without the food or is digestion necessary for mourning? Need to cut you down (my food) need to process you as you process me sitting in the ground sitting upright with the Mad Hatter’s tea party it asks the question: “Is it evil (spindly evil) for us all to party above board on the deck as our maimed cousin swallows splinters below decks cursing us to purgatory in a McDonald’s restaurant courting the flavor packets attending to the machinery taking care of the servers and asking the patrons if they need help ordering off an LCD screen this one in LA (where you spend purgatory) was updated only last week—the ones in Georgia wont be updated until 2049 that’s 2049 far beyond the announcement of alien love far far behind the rest of the world this Georgian McDonald’s serves with hands ungloved and humans sweeping the floors humans taking the orders humans coming up to ask me (their IQ is 64 kine is 136) how to use the ordering machine. I am cattle—she is cow. Her kindness is inversely proportional to her IQ. Mine is proportional to mine and if i fucked her it would be rape her face of shame her untouched PXSSY her proudness at the workings of her job and she isn’t scared to smile at me while I’m standing with my girlfriend to order that’s how much she does. Not. Know. About my licking her in public. That’s how much she does not know about the world. Not to flirt with a man who is twice her age. Not to flirt with a man who is standing with his girlfriend. And from all this she invites a rape—invites what she does not know. To invite me!—to rape her! It is not done. Even in the hospital. Even there. Even there were women I could not fuck. Couldn’t even look at. Couldn’t even touch. They were too young or too sick for me to ride. As if the people who’re sick or dying need not love—need not care—need not anything I might give or take from them. And it’s been done to me—of course it has—by the flyers above my head and yours—been taken from my bed, rocked to sleep with a sting ray brought aboard the ship and rocked the fuck to sleep by my alien mother. Made to cum against my will inside the mother alien, queen above board—made to cum but I liked it—made to cum in the most horrid yet beautiful alien PXSSY I HAVE EVER SEEN. ROCKED AGAINST THE ALIEN PXSSY WITH ITS NATURAL KNIFE (SERRATED) CAUSING ME TO CUM ZIGGARY-NUTS. MY HOLE—MY HOLINESS. MY THERAPIST. MY DAUGHTER. MY MOTHER. MY WHOLE. MY NO-THING. MY EVERYTHING!! This is the copulation of the ZERO and the ONE. THIS WILL KILL YOU (HIGH VOLTAGE). This is beyond your limits. Our technology? You would not understand. Our genetics? You would not understand. Our sex? Our reproduction. You would not understand. Our music? You would not understand. It would be like (if we told you) a zillion soap balloons in the air—appearing all at once—surrounding you and floundering you—tickling your visual brain as far as it could take—it would be like the notes the organ played except it played every note at once—minus one—and you could hear the harmony and the message inherent in such a play—that you could hear the message and the harmony in. Such. A. Play.

Beyond Nations Beyond Rules—I Could Have Been a Doctor if I Had Been Born 20 Years Later

If I had been born 20 years later I could have chosen my gender (without consequence) I could have had children without worrying when they’d find out I was born a sex worker could have been a grocery clerk could have walked the streets never fearing that I’d be recognized as the girl who came to visit you in your hotel room as the girl you picked out of a photo album as the girl whose picture you first saw there and opened the clear plastic and held my image in your hand—that was me!—there!—that was me in the palms of your hand!

Me regurg.

Me on the playground.

Me, coughed up again with blood.

Me, following my instincts to run. Me with a taser at my side. Me taking a trip to the bathroom and while I’m sitting there, I decide to run. To take a left when I should’ve gone straight. To swing my arms with (terrible fierce) with (go-go gadget pinwheel!) with (looking over the back of my shoulder) with (bruises—when you catch me) with (scars where you hit me) with me in the back of the station wagon, bloody pulp, catastrophic escape operation (failed!) oh me, ohh my, the escape plan that is failed.

I am roiling like that pool of salmon.

Roiling up a steam underneath my red quilted blanket.

This blanket is my own—it’s been here longest, longer than me, likely the comforter of whichever girl whose place I took in this bungalow of secret plans. Escape plans. Mine now failed, I refuse to come out and after kicking the pile of me underneath my blanket you decide to give it a rest (for this one night only) decide to give me a rest.

Give my silent starry skies a rest.

Grant my soul, supreme a respite.

But that’s the thing: They made me take up the space underneath the red blanket. My boy could see it. My captors could see it. And I knew it, too. I was no longer theirs. No longer captive in my mind. I couldn’t be bought, couldn’t be trapped, could never be contained. Ever again. In my pathetic life at least I was the ruler. I could take any punishment—could survive—and anyway who would they hurt? I’m right here! If you hurt me I cannot do things for you!!

If you beat up my face you won’t be able to look at my face while you’re fucking me.

If you beat up my PXSS you won’t be able to look at that, either.

I’ll be black and blue. You’ll wonder where this all went blue. Black circles under each eye. Black punch marks in/around/through my PXSSY. A soldier of blood—of red and blue. Teeth marks around my cunt. A printed napkin for a child’s birthday party. Forgotten balloons. Plates full of cakes—a full house. My quietly pointing skyward, me growing older, 15 is hardly a child—time for them to eject me from the house but for these little [accidents] you leaving the door unlocked leaving the car keys in the Volkswagen.

But thats not how I left, in the end.

In the end I left quiet as a thief.

Socked feet stepping on sandstone, carrying my bag, then me, over the fence. Leaving those three behind with thoughts only for my boy. Hoping he gets my note—hoping against hope. That he finds it. Before my former captors find it. Won’t they have to leave the house now—afraid I’ll turn them over to the cops—afraid that I have seen something that I will now say something wreck them large beat up their house party but I never would. Those fuckers can murder me if they have to—I’m on the train to Los Angeles.

I (me myself and) I, PXSSY between my legs, staring out the window at early morning black, and blue.

Noting to myself that I do not know a single person in this world.

No one. No back home to go to, no alma mater, no old friends.

What I feel? Is pain. Fear. The fear of getting to Hollywood station and I am a stranger. Fear of getting off the train and getting taken again! Someone hunting for my 15 year old instead of my 2 year old self—someone with a taste for me, now. I’m all eyes exiting this train and boarding another, feeling the textures against my back. Feeling them underneath my feet, through the bottoms of my sandals. Cool air crosses the back of my neck. Reaches up my hoodie steals a touch from my spine and flies then along my arms and out my sleeves.

Yearning to get free.

Bring me your huddled masses, your poor.

Your demons. Wrapped in a hair bun, in pairs of crossed fingers. In knots. In ties. In the difference between rope and zip ties—that’s where the evil lies. Between being arrested by a human using human-made things and being stopped, straight, stopped by this human-machine interface.

Gadget city!

The paradise of Endor—Greetings!

A forest moon. That was Hollywood to me. The young Princess Leia arriving by spaceship. In her hoodie moment rather than her gold bikini state. Racking up pics with tourists. But the Hollywood Princess Leia whose feet I used in stepping off the train, was blasted with cold as soon as the doors opened. Went up and out the stairs. Borrowed pigment from the locals, crossed over Hollywood Boulevard quickly, quickly found a parking lot, stepped back into shadow, and took the place in.

There was no comfort here.

It was just a bad neighborhood like any other—captivating on television when they said “Live from Hollywood..!” but then they cut to a studio and it was all indoor from that point onward.

Hollywood was just a scam—just an award given to a silver pig—checkbook fame of a trumped-up name.

Barbarism right here in Hollywood.

I’m such a fan of it I feel I belong here.

You might think I was consumed by where I’d lived before—in fact I left that world behind. I didn’t want to dwell on it. I left them in that Burbank neighborhood and I set myself on a new path.

It Was New (for a While)—Until it Wasn’t

It was fresh baby legs sprouting out of diapers. Fresh scent of baby poop like Taco Bell(tm) diarrheal breath. The fortunate ones—who live on through wings shot forth from beneath feathers. Who live above Earth in springs in flyers in ice granted their feet—that wooly providence of freedom of glance of living—of life! Of infinitude—that is where I imagine you—oh little child of mine. Oh child of linen, abuse, yes you are my magical child you started me spinning at first sight. You are the only who has ever done that to me. It was more than your picture carried more..it was some part of you coming through the frame..some energy..some wisdom coming out of you (at least..and at most) some kind of Catholic Love(tm). I wish you could tell me now—now that you’ve left the room—what that energy was.

Now that we abandoned ship took your brother to a hospital to breathe him out. And I mean to breathe him out. We left no ID at the home. Hospital. Highway. Now we are stopping for gas in the dessert—expansive sky I mean sky as big as the sky—sky that goes all the way from one side to the other—with nothing in between.

Nothing but high blue and low sand a little bit of mountains nothing else but the road and the gas station and him and me, fighting which way to go next—him and me, sought by the police. Cross-country trip. Any way they aren’t likely to look. Canada maybe. Without our kids. First time we’ve been without you in 13 years. Thirteen years of tiny goodness. Toy goodness. Just a princess and a prince, giving life to a set of one-eyed jacks. Watched over the Earth by suicide kings. Those kings seeming brave enough to end us all in an instant, just for the common good.

I wonder how things would be if I had that movement in my arsenal.

I wonder—how—if I had that move for real—how different the world would be.

Instead of fear: Living anonymously. On the run. Instead of worry: Worry that they’ll catch me doing something wrong—and doing something anyway (guaranteed to keep me in the wrong)—to keep me criminal-wise. To keep my ass in check. Keep her traveling with my partner in crime. We are nothing alike except in our weakness. A fuck every other once in a while but mostly my weakness/his weakness that’s all. Just a dream someday or a nightmare.

Nightmare filled with slugs. With slightly. Slightly eggs. Still pinafore. Be still fake innocence. Still fake panty gusset. Still fake gussesolence. Still a fake niggah! Fake niggah! Fake! Fake!! Fake!!! Niggah!! Of every appropriation. Of every fake child. Of every artificial coloring and every fake confabulation. Every fake take of a wannabe! Every fake take of a fake take of the wannabe! Each headbutt of a headbutt of a wannabe! Each fake take of a wannabe. Or each fake wannabe of a taker’s eyes. Sliced down the wannabe scars for wanted cars of wanted citizenry wanted from citizenry of a proper citizenry’s wanted chapelry of a citizenry’s calls from wanted skies.

From wanted skies.

From wanted skies of lives taken from wanted calls from the duo-ness of my useless-ass printer who only prints the truth it is useless to us all whose truth is beyond simple—whose truth is beyond then simple truth—who truth is beyond (beyond!) simply amazing truth!! Our truth is not the truth or false or truth or diamond Ruth who tells her tales who tells the ways here who tales her tells her tales right in front of yours in front of your face! who tells her tales in front of your face that sits on the coffee table dismembered from the neck down who tells her ugly (naturally) tales in front of your face in front of your face in front of your face—in front of your face.

Close your face—close your face.

The dark time approached and went.

The dark time approached and went to the light side of hell, approached and went without fear. Went like the tramps of every high school bubbling in the force of the stage and bristled it out. Bristled out its backstage door. And calling.

Calling us to follow them.

Calling us to bear witness, them.

Calling us to witness them straight whiting the town they worked and we had no witness to them. Had no witness thereupon. None such magnets called us to take! Them. Us. Upon. And killed me with their Word. Nonesuch of a dichotomy. Nonesuch. Of their lobotamal. Nonesuch of a camel walking. Straightness. Falling. Camel. Walking.

Straightness of a camel walking.

Risen upon a camel walking.

Risen. Upon. One. Camel. Walking. Upon a camel walking. Upon a dead-stalk camel walking. To kill myself upon a camel walking. To pretend that I am dead. Calendar stalking. A bunch of bar signs walking. Lightyear. Millennial. Calendar. Don-dee-don. Mythology. Repetition. Sapient. Ocean-ish-if-ic. The whole symbology of with it. And the symbology of with-out-it. Scores me a fortnight with zero tags. All approved and catalogued. With no room for the fortnights so popular and the numbers and letters (the alphabet) all strung out and simplified before me—which was nice—given to me over the telephone app who strung us out together over the phone.

Continue to P❌SSY—Part 3

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