She was at the balcony, breathing in the night air. It was an expansive, traveling vessel of which was suffused smells. Potent vapors: barbecued pork and chicken; gaseous trash from the anuses of vehicles; the sweat of the working man and woman; the waste of our commercialism snug on the sides of our buildings, like visible plaque on teeth. Also, if she tried hard enough, she could smell the sulfur.
All this olfactory data was borne by the wind.
She rubbed her ears. Laughter and chatter too, of kids, adults, and old folk—gave body to the young night. Five-to-ten year olds were still at it with block 1-2-3, tumbang preso and the classic patintero. Some of them were being hollered at to return home, supper was approaching, they needed to be clean to eat. Adults gobbled up the latest local scandal with a rather pious eye and dirty mouth, a natural and diurnal practice of consumption and regurgitation. All news punctuated by joke followed through by infectious laughter.
Laughter was full and voluptuous, healthy and a whore.
She opened her eyes, slowly. She saw tricycles. Their cargo of scowls, bad skin, and lost eyes. Silent as coffins in hearses, their souls drowning in a pretzel-shaped loop of mnemonic re-runs, and fluffy what-ifs. Pell-mell, linear constellations of people flanking sari-sari stores, carinderias and pedi-cabs—impatient faces, chatting, laughing or in la-la land. Would poverty be poverty if everyone was poor? Marie thought.
The church bell tolled. She exhaled…
II
…And left the terrace. She woke up early. Suddenly, the familiar blast of corpse-reviving din bombarded the small world of her room. She closed in on the necessary trouble-maker, and hit the red button on its top—hard. The alarm died.
She thought: Which blouse to wear with what jeans, or do I wear jeans? Or skirt or cargo pants? Or jazz pants? With tee or tube or spaghetti or tank top? Or halter back with jacket corduroy or sweater, or pashmina? What color do I feel like today, hmm? What fit do I prefer, hm? Would I like to show some skin, mm, or wrap myself up silly?
She catches her eyes in the full-length mirror. A dark sparkle of resentment had resided in the deep corners of her 25-year old eyes. Her thoughts moved away from this deep and heavy development; she noted instead the superficial: bags under eyes; light-gray bags—badges for her trade.
Another button is depressed, and blue lights burst into animation. Tori Amos is chosen, Sleeps With Butterflies. REPEAT is pushed down. Hair is tossed, limbs stretched, her nighty removed. She continued to determine her mood, and the gear that will go with it, in the shower.
The house was older than most men. Well-to-do Spaniards had put it up, when the neighborhood was still “good”. Marie and her family paid rent each month for the top floor. Right below her room, their living room and part of their dining room, was the garage of the owner. Below their kitchen was another, smaller unit, where another, bigger family rented. There are two rooms upstairs, the master bedroom and regular bedroom. The regular bedroom was sublet by Marie to a couple. The man worked in a grocery near the wet market, and the waitress worked at a bar under the LRT. They paid almost a third of the total rent for Marie and her family’s unit. The remaining was all up to Marie.
The shower room had no shower. It was filled with drums. Five in all. Five, big, black drums which were stuffed with water. A naked toilet was rooted near a corner, its dignity resplendent from its whiteness and cleanliness, despite it being deprived of seat and cover. All was left was a little patch of floor to “shower” in.
The water dipper is utilized, and provides the convenience and illusion of a spraying nozzle. Her mind runs back into the closet in her mind. Near the edge of her awareness stainless steel clicked, China stirred, cabinets opened, closed. Her mother was going through preparations.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
play
We are just outside the North gate to Heaven. St. Peter is behind a desk.
An angel comes up to him and places a small object on his palm. It’s a tiny scroll. St. Peter nods toward the pearly gate. The man nods back in thanks and enters Heaven. Trumpets blast as he enters, startling him, destroying his dignified composure.
Angel comes back up to St. Peter. Hands him a thick roll of parchment. St. Peter sighs.
“Next!”
A woman leaves the queue and nears St. Peter, passes him, and assumes no verification or interview is required on her. She is immaculate, and proceeds toward Heaven’s entrance.
ST. PETER: “Hold on, sister, where’s the sale? Come back here like everyone else, no special treatment here; rich, poor—you are interviewed by me. Unless of course you want to pass through the East gate and deal with Maat. She’ll go old school on you, hon’, rip your heart out and weigh it against a feather? You like the odds? Be my guest.”
WOMAN: “Why sir, you let that gentleman pass without so much as a word.”
“That gentleman had a single brief sentence on his file. You want to know what it was? I’ll tell you: suicide crossed his mind. Crossed his mind! He was practically a saint. Compare yours.”
“Why is it so thick?”
“It’s heavy too. Wanna lift? We got a long interview ahead of us ma’am. Would you like a seat?”
“I shall stand, thank you. May I have a drink.?”
“A drink of what? I hope you don’t mean to get drunk. I don’t think you want to meet Him while you’re smashed. You might flirt, for god’s sake.”
“Water. All I want is water.”
“Ophaniel! I need water and a chair.”
“I don’t need a chair, I said.”
It’s not for you, it’s for me. (makes a note)
Ophaniel enters.
Chair is for me, thanks Ophy.
An angel comes up to him and places a small object on his palm. It’s a tiny scroll. St. Peter nods toward the pearly gate. The man nods back in thanks and enters Heaven. Trumpets blast as he enters, startling him, destroying his dignified composure.
Angel comes back up to St. Peter. Hands him a thick roll of parchment. St. Peter sighs.
“Next!”
A woman leaves the queue and nears St. Peter, passes him, and assumes no verification or interview is required on her. She is immaculate, and proceeds toward Heaven’s entrance.
ST. PETER: “Hold on, sister, where’s the sale? Come back here like everyone else, no special treatment here; rich, poor—you are interviewed by me. Unless of course you want to pass through the East gate and deal with Maat. She’ll go old school on you, hon’, rip your heart out and weigh it against a feather? You like the odds? Be my guest.”
WOMAN: “Why sir, you let that gentleman pass without so much as a word.”
“That gentleman had a single brief sentence on his file. You want to know what it was? I’ll tell you: suicide crossed his mind. Crossed his mind! He was practically a saint. Compare yours.”
“Why is it so thick?”
“It’s heavy too. Wanna lift? We got a long interview ahead of us ma’am. Would you like a seat?”
“I shall stand, thank you. May I have a drink.?”
“A drink of what? I hope you don’t mean to get drunk. I don’t think you want to meet Him while you’re smashed. You might flirt, for god’s sake.”
“Water. All I want is water.”
“Ophaniel! I need water and a chair.”
“I don’t need a chair, I said.”
It’s not for you, it’s for me. (makes a note)
Ophaniel enters.
Chair is for me, thanks Ophy.
Friday, November 21, 2008
The Candy Store
The street was slick. Harold Bogart’s umbrella could not keep him even remotely dry. From across the street eccentric Mrs. Reynolds was watering her plants for the third time that time; she feeds them three times a day; she doesn’t think plants are so far apart from humans that they don’t deserve the same comfortable, controlled redundancies. She said, “look at Mr. Bogie over there, Julia, his gray uniform looks almost translucent in this cat and dog rain.” The orchid did not reply.
A few block from Mrs. Reynolds was Harold Bogart’s house. He ran up the concrete steps, and clipped his umbrella shut as he went for the door. Honey, I’m home! He used to say, once upon a time. Now he just murmurs to himself, and to the grim brownstone possibly, “the end.”
Elma was in the kitchen, banging things on surfaces or banging cabinet doors and drawers shut. She moved like a hippo in a Chinese kitchen. She looked like a hippo, too.
Hi Hon’, he managed to say—he’s had enough practice to say it in a cheerful manner. What’s for dinner?
Grub. She said. And continued on banging; a pan was getting a beating from a spatula. He leaned and peeped at the stuff that was between the quarreling utensils; it sure looked like grub.
I’ll be upstairs, changing, he told her. He went upstairs, gray walls reminded him of the swelling rain outside.
“Hey, Joe” he said, looking into the boy’s room.
No reply. Joe was playing with some Transformers; expensive toys; he had just had his birthday. Hey, Joe, his called once again. The Autobots were in a crucial battle with the evil leader Megatron; Optimus Prime’s head was inches away from one of Joe’s feet; the autobots needed to win!
Alright, Joe, see you later…son. He closed the door. Went to this room. Entered his room. Closed the door, silently; though it creaked. He wanted to bang it, but he didn’t. He didn’t want to disturb the peace.
II
Harold Bogart's section of the company made old-fashioned typewriters. They made them, they fixed them. Mr. Bogart was in charge of the Fix It department. All day long he dealt with paperwork, boss memos, employee complaints. It was a very exciting job.
III
Harold Bogart decides to leave work early.
A few block from Mrs. Reynolds was Harold Bogart’s house. He ran up the concrete steps, and clipped his umbrella shut as he went for the door. Honey, I’m home! He used to say, once upon a time. Now he just murmurs to himself, and to the grim brownstone possibly, “the end.”
Elma was in the kitchen, banging things on surfaces or banging cabinet doors and drawers shut. She moved like a hippo in a Chinese kitchen. She looked like a hippo, too.
Hi Hon’, he managed to say—he’s had enough practice to say it in a cheerful manner. What’s for dinner?
Grub. She said. And continued on banging; a pan was getting a beating from a spatula. He leaned and peeped at the stuff that was between the quarreling utensils; it sure looked like grub.
I’ll be upstairs, changing, he told her. He went upstairs, gray walls reminded him of the swelling rain outside.
“Hey, Joe” he said, looking into the boy’s room.
No reply. Joe was playing with some Transformers; expensive toys; he had just had his birthday. Hey, Joe, his called once again. The Autobots were in a crucial battle with the evil leader Megatron; Optimus Prime’s head was inches away from one of Joe’s feet; the autobots needed to win!
Alright, Joe, see you later…son. He closed the door. Went to this room. Entered his room. Closed the door, silently; though it creaked. He wanted to bang it, but he didn’t. He didn’t want to disturb the peace.
II
Harold Bogart's section of the company made old-fashioned typewriters. They made them, they fixed them. Mr. Bogart was in charge of the Fix It department. All day long he dealt with paperwork, boss memos, employee complaints. It was a very exciting job.
III
Harold Bogart decides to leave work early.
p2
The cat in a bag wriggled. Its legs were all tied, forming a triangle with a sausage body—that convulsed in alarm intermittently. The little boy with red freckles knocked timidly on the door of the Haunted Hotel.
On the third timid rap the door opened abruptly, revealing a smile on a face, its eyes welcoming, beckoning. Hello, it said; its body presenting itself after the congenial greeting.
The head connected to the neck. What can I do for you? The happy head queried.
Mr Shingle asked for this, and the boy held up the velvet bag as he told the head this.
“Ah! Yes,
On the third timid rap the door opened abruptly, revealing a smile on a face, its eyes welcoming, beckoning. Hello, it said; its body presenting itself after the congenial greeting.
The head connected to the neck. What can I do for you? The happy head queried.
Mr Shingle asked for this, and the boy held up the velvet bag as he told the head this.
“Ah! Yes,
part one;
The wind was sparse, smelled of burnt iron shavings, metallic and crisp. The craft bobbed on a black ocean filled with blue eyes, glinting, unblinking. We were many; the departed. Our captain and oarsman stood at the bow, his shaft going in and out of the black ocean, his head never stirring, focused on an unseen destination. We all knew where we were going; the land of the dead.
Just as legend would have it, we awoke on a beach, its sand gray and fine. We had just died; some naturally, some intentionally, some accidentally. We spoke, all questions, all confused. He organized us, like a sheperd. Told us to form a line, and walk solemnly up to his vessel, a boat of dark, menacing, ancient wood. We did as we were told.
He seemed on edge, I don't know, that's just how I took, I am very sensitive. When I passed him on my way up his craft--he twitched, like, I were some atrocity. I was a very nice man; everyone liked me. Or maybe, he twitched because of my wife, who was behind me; she'd make any demon twitch, she herself being a demon of nagging and finickiness. My son followed her; we all died together in the jeepney I was driving. Accidental.
We all sat, then he came aboard. He paused for a moment infront my party of three; it was almost imperceptible, but he did pause. It felt like we were in the middle of our voyage when he disrobed, exposing an awesomely white skin, thin yet tough, fragile yet impenetrable. He faced his cargo.
"I have decided to quit. I've done this a long time. I am tired; and frankly bored. To get to the other side one of you must take up my robe and my oar; if you don't you won't get to the other side, where relatives and friends await; and in the world where you came from--no one will die."
We were all awestruck. He turned his back to us, and jumped, into the eyes, into the black liquid eternity.
I was a good driver, when I had lived. Never hit no one. When we died we were hit by a drunk taxi driver, I'm guessing he is here somewhere with his passenger, a young girl, unless of course, they both survived. A pity, I would not have minded if the taxi driver died with us. An eye for an eye; the golden rule.
This is an opportunity. If I don't take this surely my wife will be nagging me until the end of time, that is, if time were to end. This way I can buy my time, be useful; until I'm bored, then I can either go the way of the boatman, or go down the otherside--which I guess, actually, is unlikely; who would want to be me once they are on the other side, assuming I take his position, and power. Power. I never had power.
I stood; a few stood as well. I did not spend more time analyzing--I ran for the robe. And took it; the other two hopefuls, stumbling into each other and crashing on the floor of the craft; my craft now. My craft.
I turned my back on them. Whatever magic which unables us to speak is glorious; my wife's scowl nearly stabbed me to death.
Just as legend would have it, we awoke on a beach, its sand gray and fine. We had just died; some naturally, some intentionally, some accidentally. We spoke, all questions, all confused. He organized us, like a sheperd. Told us to form a line, and walk solemnly up to his vessel, a boat of dark, menacing, ancient wood. We did as we were told.
He seemed on edge, I don't know, that's just how I took, I am very sensitive. When I passed him on my way up his craft--he twitched, like, I were some atrocity. I was a very nice man; everyone liked me. Or maybe, he twitched because of my wife, who was behind me; she'd make any demon twitch, she herself being a demon of nagging and finickiness. My son followed her; we all died together in the jeepney I was driving. Accidental.
We all sat, then he came aboard. He paused for a moment infront my party of three; it was almost imperceptible, but he did pause. It felt like we were in the middle of our voyage when he disrobed, exposing an awesomely white skin, thin yet tough, fragile yet impenetrable. He faced his cargo.
"I have decided to quit. I've done this a long time. I am tired; and frankly bored. To get to the other side one of you must take up my robe and my oar; if you don't you won't get to the other side, where relatives and friends await; and in the world where you came from--no one will die."
We were all awestruck. He turned his back to us, and jumped, into the eyes, into the black liquid eternity.
I was a good driver, when I had lived. Never hit no one. When we died we were hit by a drunk taxi driver, I'm guessing he is here somewhere with his passenger, a young girl, unless of course, they both survived. A pity, I would not have minded if the taxi driver died with us. An eye for an eye; the golden rule.
This is an opportunity. If I don't take this surely my wife will be nagging me until the end of time, that is, if time were to end. This way I can buy my time, be useful; until I'm bored, then I can either go the way of the boatman, or go down the otherside--which I guess, actually, is unlikely; who would want to be me once they are on the other side, assuming I take his position, and power. Power. I never had power.
I stood; a few stood as well. I did not spend more time analyzing--I ran for the robe. And took it; the other two hopefuls, stumbling into each other and crashing on the floor of the craft; my craft now. My craft.
I turned my back on them. Whatever magic which unables us to speak is glorious; my wife's scowl nearly stabbed me to death.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Cigarettes...
The line. The course of which we travel. You light up the line. Movement happens. Life and death dance.
The best time to light up a line is at night.
At night lines taste better, for some reason. The journey, though short, is sweet.
Smoke replies when you light up the line. I feel encoded in its movement are secrets, or lies...either way, they're interesting.
Lines kill. But what the fuck doesn't.
I surrender to its plea to live, by flicking the lighter and creating fire. In return, small jigsaw pieces will out.
It's good too, after showers.
The best time to light up a line is at night.
At night lines taste better, for some reason. The journey, though short, is sweet.
Smoke replies when you light up the line. I feel encoded in its movement are secrets, or lies...either way, they're interesting.
Lines kill. But what the fuck doesn't.
I surrender to its plea to live, by flicking the lighter and creating fire. In return, small jigsaw pieces will out.
It's good too, after showers.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Surprise Me Sexy
Surprise is the trick to erection. Haphazardly contrive a surprise and take it through its limits: be prepared to go all out and produce full-rounded reactions of the green and red kind. Initiate and trigger the clicks of the impatient clitoris. Make it wet snappily! And never release your myopic, hypnotic executions until the great act of sex and love is as wasted on the floor as both your sweat-soaked naked bodies, under the half-light of lusty moonlight, and tacky blinking flourescent. Bringing the bacon home to its real lady master, who sits on the throne of the major and minor labias, smashes her expectations, changes her taut schedule, dizzies her and puts her out to sea with a violent jolt, to lose herself in the thralls and slashing waves of your passion, the whirls of your Machiavelian savoir-faire.
Surprise is the tool for fluidal spontaneity. So do not stop when you start. When you start do not stop. More, more, more: Hit it/her: she's stunned, go forth! and multiply the punches to her psyche. Rip her clothes off! Tear her undergarments to shards of dreary confetti, they are instruments of containment and oppression! Bring her down to the dark of the floor and make her rest in uncomfortable places filled with corners and blunt protrudencies. Introduce her to pain, to the flirtation of death, arouse her fantasies of destruction. Make her feel like a mammal about to be sacrificed, and you are dressing her with your saliva and sweat and she's assisting unsconsciously by coloring her hide red with just-unchained awakened guilt. Let the objects under her leave marks: sigils of approval for the carnage and horrific pleasure-land ahead. Do not stop, do not stop, if only to breath and punctuate the war. Have no doubt: this is a war! Spears and shields, swords and traps, wands and cups! Mental mazes, feigning strategies, sexy attacks of surround! This is ancient: Where the winner is the loser and the loser the winner.
Surprise is the signature of climactic expression. She's down but she's not out. Pounce baby pounce baby pounce! She thinks she's in for it, she thinks it's soon; it's coming: IT'S NOT. Retract: surprise through retreat. Don't give in to speed, to the calls of the weak belle-kitty-femme splattered on the floor of her own well of psychology. Retract your tongue and allow her pores to catch up to some oxygen; the animal is ready / but the animal is not ready. Conquer her through your silence, your slowness, your quiet calm rules over her naked pink skinscape. She will yearn, crave, call you names of praise then bludgeon your ego with hard words like GAY or FAGGOT or AMATEUR or COCKSUCKER or MATCH STICK but your cool will be kept and your eyes, each of which will speak for themselves, will say, FUCK!, and the other, YOU!, and your lips will underline their statement in harsh, barbarian sotto: SHUT UP! then sweetly, underbreath: MY BITCH! As sweet as Hitler would have said it. Now, you are done with the ego, move on to the being beneath it. To it a favor: Hurt it.
Surprise is the equivalent of blood, bones and congressions. Slap her face. Respect the sun gods as Apollo respects your cave and the moons and satellites trapped there, as he respects the shine of your own unquenchable modern horniness, a stellar creature long since imprisoned by neo-ropes of middle class tradition. And slap her again, teach her the scrolls of knowledge pregnant in each of the digits of your thick manly hand. Push her down, press on her the texture of your design by burdening her with the uncomfortableness of her position. Her body will applaud you through spasms; she is not fighting, it only appears that way--you know women--she wants more: slap her a third. Ah, her ego is bruised, but women's egos are denser, tougher than the toughest skins of partially cooked meat, louder than Jupiter's fat ass in the sky: she's bruised, but bruise her some more: Slap! her a fourth time. Ow, she might say, and she might mean it, but what word came out of a woman that wasn't bladed doubly? She. Only. Wants. More. The blood, that red juice, it's the external eggcell in floods as flags declaring MORE MORE MORE hit me some more! Slap her a fifth, shut up that stupid bitch! She doesn't know what she wants--thrust at her her needs.
Surprise is the parting of convention and the surrendering to exclamation. She's dreaming, with the Sandman and a dead Barbara Streisand, whose nose she wants: for your penis she can't have. Now is the time to insert. At that point on the cliff when she means suicide and has believed in your lie. This is when you insert...only the tip of its head...use this...it's a trick, a gesture of simplicity; tease; play; linger; lull; this move is soft-core drugs, the hard will come soon after...but not till a while...when on the verge of familiarity, withdraw: fuck her. These last two words she'll spill in mumbling druidic singsong. Don't give in, but give in; hand her your penis. Allow her hands to caress and smooth that magical weapon of creation, this wand and sword of will and imagination: she may take it upon her fingers and touch it and feel it and know its power. She may acquaint herself with the mark of your god, and she may pray to it in silence or stupor, but her heart you will hear chant: fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me--One hundred and twenty two FUCK MEs a minute. You will shove an iceberg-cold shoulder to all these ancient requests and control her movements on your little master. She is your slave. They all are.
Surprise is the food of sex, of the gods and goddesses and of the devils inside us that turn us on. When she's happy with this, as soon as she is happy with this: take it away. And dunk it between her teeth and lips. Up and down, go. She's still in that nirvana-hell-stupor and won't realize she's eating god-food until seconds of subconscious pleasure coalesces and coagulates and awakes her once-again eager hungry horny sex animal within, her true self. Then her lips will lock and you will let her. Then her teeth will shyly graze the tube of all life and you will like it and let her. But do not love it. Love her, you may, IT you may not: there is the war to consider. You must not lose/ you must lose (yourself)! Now, YOU rest, and she rides the spring of machoness and honor (whose shadow is righteousness) with the saddles of her tongue and the reins of her soft circular lips. Up and down, like the tune of the drama of all life, she goes, an endless performance of grand symbolism. Woman eating man, man kissing woman: together an ouroboros out of an Aztec's mushroom encrusted imaginings. We are Snake. Cuts of the same serpent. Scales of human make, eyes of Eden suns, energies of gods and goddesses, rulers of all creation, convoluting and pulsating madly like street dogs in heat under the hot white Helios.
Surprise is the mimed magical dance of intelligent pseudo-planning and boisterous sporadicalness. She is now terrified; her bones report to her the vulnerableness of their position, but what can obelisks do to upturned triangles but destroy them (it's their purpose?)? But eat she continues, appreciative of the ambrosia-snack. Then a hand reaches in deep into the woods of her hair and collects a bouquet of black thick strands, trapping them then pulling them, pulling up her head, her lips away from the bone. You look at her, she looks pathetic--and you think, soon: we will exchange expressions. She is down again, against books and toys and sharp whatnots that remind you you're alive and you can feel. Her oyster is consumed and regurgitated, consumed and regurgitated; and the smell of seafood is both pleasant and repugnant, and you love and abhor, love and abhore it. And you get drunk on the sea underneath the folds that keep the secret slit (or the slit secret). Bless Poseidon, this was one monster that bore his genius, this black hairy triangular grape-topped oyster cake. A magickal cake that would never leave you hungry nor ever serve you until you were full. A grand trick, as guile-filled as a lawyer's wordy contract, yet as sweet as a Kotzwinkle erotica. She's blessed to have this treasure chest of textures and wreaks and smells that produce inspiring and flagrant reactions within the bosom of each imagination. I get drunk, and now, I lose my power: to win you must lose...---
Surprise is intensity in the purest language; the spark of creation. She is in control; I, her slave. She is the controller now: editor of environment, intensity, rhythm, texture, smells: etc. She has learned from me. From us. And now, the moon burns like the sun in a doomsday, summer rage. I melt, into myself, close to the seabed of my consciousness as she plunges my totem into the black hole where not even our lust can escape. She is now the man, the cowgirl in outer space riding the rocket off in circles around planets and moons and asteriod littorals, and the astrological symbols that had bound her. She's off now, chasing comets in hyperspeed and pumping me slow like a re-converted nun's first time go at it. She is intuned with the universe: she IS the universe: and Lucifer is at her feet, chain-linked within the unseen spherical prison of ecstasy and sugary defeat. She is now Goddess; I mere mortal, dying in pleasure, deeper and deeper with love and warmth--warm, moist pleasure, sinking, and sinking into the void of nonentity and oneness and divinity.
Surprise will get you up, leave you up, finish you off at the right time before shovelling you back to earth. She is now pumping hard and fast, impersonating the Industrial Revolution's birth; like there is no tomorrow for two people in mad vertigo-love. She, the Goddess, is provoking my awakening. Mastering my soul into a sculpture of her design, upwards, cascading into the converging point. This is to contrast my roughness; a soft-hard answer to my "first word" (that first paragraph above), that first burst of titilating surprise. It is her stage, her time now, her honor to perform; it is hers, this leatherland of skin I may call eggshell to my universe. Within the layers of flesh, floods of blood, corridors of bone, lies the elements that comprise the composition of my very being, what I am "about". And here she dances with these elements through the use (abuse) of my penis as a phallicism. The gravity! of her actions; the antiquity of her sex's voice by slap and wallop! The mammmal tangoes with a black hole--
Surprise will kill the evil spirits of dullness and cobwebbed patterns of your grand parents. Slow, she goes...slow, like a child's interpretation of the first experience of rainfall. She orders you to move suddenly, this way and that way, mixing in her mind what would work, running through her instincts what would please the gods of pleasure, of life, of beautifull perversity; settling on a strange position of mutual, explosive, creamy texture. The sword and sheath renew their violent bass dance. The Indians danced for rain; we fuck to come; may the cum come, may the cum come! She is enjoying her power; she is the goddess, queen of all within the bed of blunt objects which I now use as ruined throne. I wait for rain to fall.
Surprise is the conqueror of tyrannical mudanity and the queen-king of pleasure. She thinks she is in touch with the goddess, without thinking she is; tapping on that blessed energy from a loosely mapped nonspacial source. This ancient brutality stems from all the seeds of creation and is a language understood by the body in the heat of procreation, or even just fucking, or swinging. The Devil is in the math; it is his expertise to be the unsung values between "ahh", "ohh", "o shit", and all the rest of it: Coming down to "condescend" a kiss to her prisoner, she rises, violently, erect again. The whip of her back--whose aftereffect is the whip of her comet-shaped hair--to return to her teachings atop--up and down: rhythmic loop--the pillar of men and mine. She is taking me far, to the ends of the 5 sensorial receptor's evaluation, down and up and up and down--fluctuating in ribbons of motion--towards the lost, untravelled lands of real freedom of expression.
Surprise will jumpstart you, pounce and devour silly expectations only to produce golden excrements of lemony sweetness and floral imagery. She scratches her amorphous resolutions on my chest, and leaves lines of wet red that drip to my sides and tickle me with their journey. I love this, I love her; but I can't right now: now is a time for war, and sentimentality will cost you mountains of psychedelic deliciousness and soul-educative bonking. Unexpectedly, I lunge, take the controls and the postures of power from her. Surprise can come in many ways. The variances of the sex-session's stories--it's written in pseudo-mime, with grunts as sign posts to where they've been and are going to; the logic of speed used as fuel, of pressure as insurance to conversational limbs and organs; of the talent to hit the marks in the sacred cave that require hard (or soft) touchability. These things and more require a "no mind" mentality, a state necessary in the practice of worshiping each other. I grab her hair and pull her down, and her face is pushed down against the tiled floor surround. The back door to the Temple, I enter. Her one monk, the one they call The Button, is smiling widely.
Surprise is the ruler on the hill who tripped Jack and Jill; his name is Fun, whose unproven etymological genes stem from Pan, the god, the first party-host and -goer, and the father of Ferris Bueller.
Surprise is the tool for fluidal spontaneity. So do not stop when you start. When you start do not stop. More, more, more: Hit it/her: she's stunned, go forth! and multiply the punches to her psyche. Rip her clothes off! Tear her undergarments to shards of dreary confetti, they are instruments of containment and oppression! Bring her down to the dark of the floor and make her rest in uncomfortable places filled with corners and blunt protrudencies. Introduce her to pain, to the flirtation of death, arouse her fantasies of destruction. Make her feel like a mammal about to be sacrificed, and you are dressing her with your saliva and sweat and she's assisting unsconsciously by coloring her hide red with just-unchained awakened guilt. Let the objects under her leave marks: sigils of approval for the carnage and horrific pleasure-land ahead. Do not stop, do not stop, if only to breath and punctuate the war. Have no doubt: this is a war! Spears and shields, swords and traps, wands and cups! Mental mazes, feigning strategies, sexy attacks of surround! This is ancient: Where the winner is the loser and the loser the winner.
Surprise is the signature of climactic expression. She's down but she's not out. Pounce baby pounce baby pounce! She thinks she's in for it, she thinks it's soon; it's coming: IT'S NOT. Retract: surprise through retreat. Don't give in to speed, to the calls of the weak belle-kitty-femme splattered on the floor of her own well of psychology. Retract your tongue and allow her pores to catch up to some oxygen; the animal is ready / but the animal is not ready. Conquer her through your silence, your slowness, your quiet calm rules over her naked pink skinscape. She will yearn, crave, call you names of praise then bludgeon your ego with hard words like GAY or FAGGOT or AMATEUR or COCKSUCKER or MATCH STICK but your cool will be kept and your eyes, each of which will speak for themselves, will say, FUCK!, and the other, YOU!, and your lips will underline their statement in harsh, barbarian sotto: SHUT UP! then sweetly, underbreath: MY BITCH! As sweet as Hitler would have said it. Now, you are done with the ego, move on to the being beneath it. To it a favor: Hurt it.
Surprise is the equivalent of blood, bones and congressions. Slap her face. Respect the sun gods as Apollo respects your cave and the moons and satellites trapped there, as he respects the shine of your own unquenchable modern horniness, a stellar creature long since imprisoned by neo-ropes of middle class tradition. And slap her again, teach her the scrolls of knowledge pregnant in each of the digits of your thick manly hand. Push her down, press on her the texture of your design by burdening her with the uncomfortableness of her position. Her body will applaud you through spasms; she is not fighting, it only appears that way--you know women--she wants more: slap her a third. Ah, her ego is bruised, but women's egos are denser, tougher than the toughest skins of partially cooked meat, louder than Jupiter's fat ass in the sky: she's bruised, but bruise her some more: Slap! her a fourth time. Ow, she might say, and she might mean it, but what word came out of a woman that wasn't bladed doubly? She. Only. Wants. More. The blood, that red juice, it's the external eggcell in floods as flags declaring MORE MORE MORE hit me some more! Slap her a fifth, shut up that stupid bitch! She doesn't know what she wants--thrust at her her needs.
Surprise is the parting of convention and the surrendering to exclamation. She's dreaming, with the Sandman and a dead Barbara Streisand, whose nose she wants: for your penis she can't have. Now is the time to insert. At that point on the cliff when she means suicide and has believed in your lie. This is when you insert...only the tip of its head...use this...it's a trick, a gesture of simplicity; tease; play; linger; lull; this move is soft-core drugs, the hard will come soon after...but not till a while...when on the verge of familiarity, withdraw: fuck her. These last two words she'll spill in mumbling druidic singsong. Don't give in, but give in; hand her your penis. Allow her hands to caress and smooth that magical weapon of creation, this wand and sword of will and imagination: she may take it upon her fingers and touch it and feel it and know its power. She may acquaint herself with the mark of your god, and she may pray to it in silence or stupor, but her heart you will hear chant: fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me--One hundred and twenty two FUCK MEs a minute. You will shove an iceberg-cold shoulder to all these ancient requests and control her movements on your little master. She is your slave. They all are.
Surprise is the food of sex, of the gods and goddesses and of the devils inside us that turn us on. When she's happy with this, as soon as she is happy with this: take it away. And dunk it between her teeth and lips. Up and down, go. She's still in that nirvana-hell-stupor and won't realize she's eating god-food until seconds of subconscious pleasure coalesces and coagulates and awakes her once-again eager hungry horny sex animal within, her true self. Then her lips will lock and you will let her. Then her teeth will shyly graze the tube of all life and you will like it and let her. But do not love it. Love her, you may, IT you may not: there is the war to consider. You must not lose/ you must lose (yourself)! Now, YOU rest, and she rides the spring of machoness and honor (whose shadow is righteousness) with the saddles of her tongue and the reins of her soft circular lips. Up and down, like the tune of the drama of all life, she goes, an endless performance of grand symbolism. Woman eating man, man kissing woman: together an ouroboros out of an Aztec's mushroom encrusted imaginings. We are Snake. Cuts of the same serpent. Scales of human make, eyes of Eden suns, energies of gods and goddesses, rulers of all creation, convoluting and pulsating madly like street dogs in heat under the hot white Helios.
Surprise is the mimed magical dance of intelligent pseudo-planning and boisterous sporadicalness. She is now terrified; her bones report to her the vulnerableness of their position, but what can obelisks do to upturned triangles but destroy them (it's their purpose?)? But eat she continues, appreciative of the ambrosia-snack. Then a hand reaches in deep into the woods of her hair and collects a bouquet of black thick strands, trapping them then pulling them, pulling up her head, her lips away from the bone. You look at her, she looks pathetic--and you think, soon: we will exchange expressions. She is down again, against books and toys and sharp whatnots that remind you you're alive and you can feel. Her oyster is consumed and regurgitated, consumed and regurgitated; and the smell of seafood is both pleasant and repugnant, and you love and abhor, love and abhore it. And you get drunk on the sea underneath the folds that keep the secret slit (or the slit secret). Bless Poseidon, this was one monster that bore his genius, this black hairy triangular grape-topped oyster cake. A magickal cake that would never leave you hungry nor ever serve you until you were full. A grand trick, as guile-filled as a lawyer's wordy contract, yet as sweet as a Kotzwinkle erotica. She's blessed to have this treasure chest of textures and wreaks and smells that produce inspiring and flagrant reactions within the bosom of each imagination. I get drunk, and now, I lose my power: to win you must lose...---
Surprise is intensity in the purest language; the spark of creation. She is in control; I, her slave. She is the controller now: editor of environment, intensity, rhythm, texture, smells: etc. She has learned from me. From us. And now, the moon burns like the sun in a doomsday, summer rage. I melt, into myself, close to the seabed of my consciousness as she plunges my totem into the black hole where not even our lust can escape. She is now the man, the cowgirl in outer space riding the rocket off in circles around planets and moons and asteriod littorals, and the astrological symbols that had bound her. She's off now, chasing comets in hyperspeed and pumping me slow like a re-converted nun's first time go at it. She is intuned with the universe: she IS the universe: and Lucifer is at her feet, chain-linked within the unseen spherical prison of ecstasy and sugary defeat. She is now Goddess; I mere mortal, dying in pleasure, deeper and deeper with love and warmth--warm, moist pleasure, sinking, and sinking into the void of nonentity and oneness and divinity.
Surprise will get you up, leave you up, finish you off at the right time before shovelling you back to earth. She is now pumping hard and fast, impersonating the Industrial Revolution's birth; like there is no tomorrow for two people in mad vertigo-love. She, the Goddess, is provoking my awakening. Mastering my soul into a sculpture of her design, upwards, cascading into the converging point. This is to contrast my roughness; a soft-hard answer to my "first word" (that first paragraph above), that first burst of titilating surprise. It is her stage, her time now, her honor to perform; it is hers, this leatherland of skin I may call eggshell to my universe. Within the layers of flesh, floods of blood, corridors of bone, lies the elements that comprise the composition of my very being, what I am "about". And here she dances with these elements through the use (abuse) of my penis as a phallicism. The gravity! of her actions; the antiquity of her sex's voice by slap and wallop! The mammmal tangoes with a black hole--
Surprise will kill the evil spirits of dullness and cobwebbed patterns of your grand parents. Slow, she goes...slow, like a child's interpretation of the first experience of rainfall. She orders you to move suddenly, this way and that way, mixing in her mind what would work, running through her instincts what would please the gods of pleasure, of life, of beautifull perversity; settling on a strange position of mutual, explosive, creamy texture. The sword and sheath renew their violent bass dance. The Indians danced for rain; we fuck to come; may the cum come, may the cum come! She is enjoying her power; she is the goddess, queen of all within the bed of blunt objects which I now use as ruined throne. I wait for rain to fall.
Surprise is the conqueror of tyrannical mudanity and the queen-king of pleasure. She thinks she is in touch with the goddess, without thinking she is; tapping on that blessed energy from a loosely mapped nonspacial source. This ancient brutality stems from all the seeds of creation and is a language understood by the body in the heat of procreation, or even just fucking, or swinging. The Devil is in the math; it is his expertise to be the unsung values between "ahh", "ohh", "o shit", and all the rest of it: Coming down to "condescend" a kiss to her prisoner, she rises, violently, erect again. The whip of her back--whose aftereffect is the whip of her comet-shaped hair--to return to her teachings atop--up and down: rhythmic loop--the pillar of men and mine. She is taking me far, to the ends of the 5 sensorial receptor's evaluation, down and up and up and down--fluctuating in ribbons of motion--towards the lost, untravelled lands of real freedom of expression.
Surprise will jumpstart you, pounce and devour silly expectations only to produce golden excrements of lemony sweetness and floral imagery. She scratches her amorphous resolutions on my chest, and leaves lines of wet red that drip to my sides and tickle me with their journey. I love this, I love her; but I can't right now: now is a time for war, and sentimentality will cost you mountains of psychedelic deliciousness and soul-educative bonking. Unexpectedly, I lunge, take the controls and the postures of power from her. Surprise can come in many ways. The variances of the sex-session's stories--it's written in pseudo-mime, with grunts as sign posts to where they've been and are going to; the logic of speed used as fuel, of pressure as insurance to conversational limbs and organs; of the talent to hit the marks in the sacred cave that require hard (or soft) touchability. These things and more require a "no mind" mentality, a state necessary in the practice of worshiping each other. I grab her hair and pull her down, and her face is pushed down against the tiled floor surround. The back door to the Temple, I enter. Her one monk, the one they call The Button, is smiling widely.
Surprise is the ruler on the hill who tripped Jack and Jill; his name is Fun, whose unproven etymological genes stem from Pan, the god, the first party-host and -goer, and the father of Ferris Bueller.
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