Feminime Jouissance

Exchange of extensions. So valuable. I am sad. I am glad. I am bad. New char called Leatherette, my lovely leatherette, stubborn, defiant, but chummy too yummy gummy often stumped — but not (and this is important) frantic.

Char Lotta is now proclaiming wants to do a whole bend-etta on Sad Girls. (Kiss kiss.) Miss piss. Comes from notions about art as a fervor, frisky bumptious enigmatic excremental. I always miss because of piss. Due to sacrificial subsidence the vortex of virtues, got stuck with tons of them. The Ones who work in Sorrow. Sorrow has shine, like a vendetta? hmm, plagues became germs, heavenly sublime — materialism cures — using therapeutic cloning?

Yes. In serious philosophical corners, admittedly am “crummy” for “blue” perfume — for body la langue. Dirty is a char (character, spirit, charm, grapheme). Sees itself as theft from real.

Lacanian Ink. On the Joys of Fem Jouissance and Body of La Langue started lovingly call the Fem Bot issue. Looking forward to reading.

Dead Pie and Fem Bots. Titular tectonics and topical drift. Every fathom and flinch. Topics for me upchuck chars.

Something always ends up dead in bed, frets and fish sticks, kicks and pricks, and sorrows fist wailing at sky — at wishing well why eye lie stay ray fray ok. The do and die.

Naughty Parker, brushes off pants, smiles — over smiles, does a frozen grin. Lets the grin in. Haunts the adlib.

Exchanging extensions. How the fuck live without it? I didn’t, that’s why. Why LiLu never leaves. Just hangs in noose and breathes seethes, pees. With Louise.

Brooks. Miss Piss??? Sad miss piss flakes out in flowering mists of lunatic for love, guv. Burns up worm sperm spurn kernal, ay colnl — love on grid for aluminous and argentiferous, fuckwit and waterslide —- In praise of donkey darkness? I am donkey of darkness comes alive with candor pander slander meander and cruising for dead = love of = pie.

Cruelties carry a strange extortion of hammers, Leatherette hordes what little coins land in cup. Horder. Always was a horder. Love gets pound’d into the dust. Love gets mournful lazy rat crazy.

The night that arose before the dawn, with a friendly noose and spigot. Didn’t know why. Hit me like a sticky bun . Western movies maybe with noose and gun. Death advertised for fun. 

Coming Soon

Adventures in nihilism — sacrificial bursts of wild longings and sorrow mocked and graced, with tastes of infinite sorrow, in an infinite horror show whose reality was damned, stuck inside nut case.

Western Fight/Fright Night Fiona.

Terror creates desire? 

Pulling away pulling away. See ropes and pulleys. Numerology gets scraped off from stick, rind all colors of Pink, save them for present tense — kisses of kindness. Rare. VERY RARE. Life is a tear.

Books against cheek, cheek against the heavy, plusses pulsing with mutterers and cutterers and weepers, blood and flood in flagrante, a wild and misty porn raises sacrificial sleeves and mourns — cosmic vegetating mold of racing with the wind, en coup de vent, they say in french, hasty migrations.

Nothing I do is hasty. Crash is probably a better word for it.

But boo la foo, sun and ditch. Vanishing is scattering and scuddering a beamer who scrapes skins by hand or machine

Sorrywasdogonleash. Like in waiting for godot. There there but not really there. Body gets stuck in awful ditches, nets, you name the unnamable, stuck mind grind behind sign. Lapsidarian lapsidasical Lucy in love.

Sick with it, always.

Is that also a lie? Mastodons.

LiLu believed there was magic in sickness, American Indian magic. Burrows in a thickness.

Who could calm Thommassina down, who could take fairy blasters to visionary voracious invidiousness — stuck in a muck all guck and tuck, reek with it — and let her think about it. Holding hands with Sam the Man, is heavenly tiresome jacked. But at moments where cross wires nit — it was as if the very thing got released from existence.

Puffs of absolutes so fragile, transfixed by it. Enchantment is not deadly said no one ever.

Moccasin boots up to the knee, slunk in chair, knees trembling through bubbles of horror and love mired in silence, gulping after leaks frantic with desire. Hotel rooms basting feverishly in excruciations pleasure of departure, agonies exclusion, license to die. Thats a vampire extension, vampire logic is part of the Sad Girl Group.

Grandpa yells out: tail feathers!

Wanting more than anything skin, boogaloo skin, sleep skin, the din the spin the grin the bin.

Like a head of a fortune teller pressed to sink, as torture for keys to castledoor — who where why, the bloody fucking keys.

Moi: Tell me or else.

Lui: Else nothing.

Victor and LiLu are sickness benefits. Loss to moments where surrendered to beauty. Too deep steep leap creep heap flip dip nip sip rip. Very.

So they both fucked off, and died. Horror poured out with starvation for connection between forms. Love kills, love dies.

Shine blows it down: instills the will in the kill that loves anyways, raids the undead — call the fourth gender.

Whose hunt after love was sex and tedium, drink and a sink, puking with Thumblina, death a peddle on the moil, a torture a sadness a lunatic ironical inflagration of mystery burning to be — which is to say: was but not was. There not there. Combines into wine. Said with sly grin. Fem bots lemmings complots, came to life as a thing stuck in wall archimedes for a hole. To see beyond the wild seduction of torments — washing itself out in ashes. Encompassed by lunacy hatred.

As revelation in donkey darkness.

Yet Pinky adores it thinks friends are pens lense dens of time flaming with rhyme, calls it numbers running —

Agatha takes out wands of different sizes, circles and lines, geometrical combinatories take your share take your time, wild scares go on and on, and on and —

Thumblina’s discovery, mutant rigors of mumbledom, shows up lunching on naked tralations latrations, barking metaphors, crouched on stomach grumbling like a hungry tiger. Flirty dirty, luminiferous — tippy and topsy — emptiness turning turning in turrets of Sigmundo Froid, that could last years lost in wild triggered mists of nirvana and temptation and sorrow —

Altar as mystification of body, roiled in joy and terror. Lately started calling Dante’s Stations pinned up in a Net. Dante dances here for baby formula.

Motorcycles pull up to Wawa — everyone wearing machinery, tokens of the fall, absurd the Leatherette loves to blur with the contrite and of course — no remorse. Rather pray for them all.

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