When I meet a new person I get to make up a new self. They come to me streaming, I show my clit for the world to see, live on the up and down Periscope and when I turn the camera on myself it is shocking to everyone but me.
I have drums in my ears, pins, zippers, helium bombs.
I rock a Sybian, hair curlers in the shape of ram horns.
Goat tattoo—head of a goat, motherfucker.
And my left fallopian tube excreted on the extern of my body, Ask Jeeves mounted with a syringe full of your sperm—I can input sperm to an ovum at any time I press on the plunger and impregnate myself at the end of a video seg. My profile says WATCH ME PROCESS SPERM. Coupla hits off that. You get your jim erect and when I push the sperma down with a hand hand hand you imagine the babies were yours and we were living in a stable relationship in a house in the suburbs. Mail me genetic materials with the corporate postal rate—send me bombs and foldable girls paperclips fingernails scabs from where you did it too hard then mount an excursion via multimedia! you will never know how squishy it is through the phone. For fifty dollars I cum in your throat, flyboys screaming through boxes of tissues don't you know you scraped your greatness off the wall. Don't you know your legacy is—in most cases—just your predilection for colors tastes a certain type of pussy you've come so far from 14 now to 17 and you want the girl who is not quite an illegal drug. I am the girl you strap to the bed. Tie me up with pliers between my legs I learn to love you and you learn to love me, my captor—certain joy in knowing I can never be through with you, that you taste my grool in your sleep it falls from the side of your face and pools on the sheets you say, "You're pouring water on me," when I wake you up, the morning sings. Punk-alley bitch-ass bullshit from a frog nine. Bring the extra clubs and I'll walk, Cirque-us style, in a van we rode from Cincinnati with you sitting on my knee and we (both virgins) sang to Reznor Closer you would have been my first you would have been my first I let you violate me perpetrate me complicate me but a year later when you saw my feed you were like fuck this, freak—I don't grow babies on the outside of my body. Told a Watergate that this toad will never turn into a princess—ever—regardless of how you stroke her. I had garden gnomes installed in my Slip 'N Slide and when you get to the groove I say, "Sail that ship, captain," and you sail it all the way through to the end. No amount of academics could prepare you for this. No amount of MILF pussy can prepare you for this. You've got foodborne illness coming out your ears—nothing can prepare you for the schluff-off jizz machine stuck between my chewing gum lips. I'll Hubba Bubba your military ass till you can't stand up you'll have scabs between the hole between your legs. I am the woman who broke into your workplace put my ass crack down and spray painted the mutha templates cross your walls like Banksy. Stacks of limbs, stacks of elbows, stack of cherry, loops of fruitcake, white slices looming 'bove the necromancer hall messages delivered on flame—tip of the tongue, blazing orange, insides, come to momma. There was a mountain in the fairytale, slice of lemon, lemon cake, lemon drop, lemon tongue—you might want to grab the roll bar 'cause my tingles are coming off the rail—slept with me in Havana, virile monkeys spreading citrus remedy for the coke between my legs. Everything was born there mismatched chromosomes wired like a deadly bike accident. Buried deep in the center of the hole, a rock, likened to a pearl. If you just misspell something you can call it art.
That was the dark arts.
Those were the yard darts.
A sail run up in red and white, ladybug screening, countenance forward muffyn tingles and a ho-dee-ho-ho. I sliced my natal lips in 12 pieces one for each maniac of Jesus, Liberace, Colin Jones, they made up medical equipment after me, I am the namesake of flasks and monitors, pliers and tweezers, kid nothing is the scream team watermelon bug. Buffalos, cows, a hybrid Egypt/alien bubble, terror catechism, handbook Riley, believe this or not motherfucker.
We have you on lock.
Every carry monitored, every roof, every step, every syllable and breath. If I contract my pussy movements there is a field. If I scratch my inner nostril with the back of a fingernail there is a field for that. Every time I hold your breath underwater, baptizing you to death—there is a field in the database for that.
We adorn your movements with Cheshire, asking nothing in return but your five-dollar bug spray, tenteen condoms, hail, pussy hair, the clippers you use on your beard, I have once laid into a woman scissored her but no baby was to come of it and I had already siphoned here pheromones for future use. Tenteen fucks and a ho-dee-ho fragile horsey broke my hymen but forever I have come to hold it in this vat of children's stories formaldehyde.
See, here is a nostril.
And here is a toe.
Everything depends on what size you are. If you're big, then toenail clippers are for cutting toenails—if you're small, then toenail clippers are for cutting your head off.