There is however this small matter of the codex.
It was the baby book—a book of names. A diary of sorts, listing all the births and deaths and half-births in a 12-mile scope. I was responsible for 14. Plus or minus one. If you think about going from here to there and back again you will note that during this trip you go up/down/left/right all the same amount—you would have to or you would end up somewhere else. It is the same with births and deaths, it seems—according to the book. For every in, there is an out. For every hot there is a cold. And on and on—and that's the matter of the codex.
Name after name.
And I would have named my 14—or 15, whichever—and I did name them, but not with names like Betty and Bertrand and Bob. I named mine Yellow No 2 and Red No 5 and things like that. Purple No 12 depending on the age, bruising, other organic factors. Color of the tongue, color of the lungs. Days in fetu. Results from send-away genetic tests. Place in the genealogy of the father. Tolerance to pain. And also fortune as determined by this see-through plastic fish I got from a girl on the internet. (Not really fair to mention her name but she takes pictures in the shower and sends them to me.) So they'd be like Red Baby and Blue Baby and Gold. As their skin changes so do their names: you might start out as Red Baby and turn into Blue Baby then to Black Baby Charcoal Baby or Skeleton Baby. Broken-arms baby. Severed-tongue Baby. Chainsaw Baby. Licorice Baby. Ted Bundy Baby if you looked like an American serial killer, kidnapper, rapist, burglar, and necrophile—phew! Seven-armed Baby. Potty baby who was born in the potty. Window Baby who I almost threw out the window. Ant-eye Baby I put ants in her eyes and watched her scream. Fluid Baby I put lighter fluid in her diaper and when I pulled away the plastic her cunt came with it. Gag Baby I taped her closed to stop her breathing. Lincoln Logs baby got a Lincoln Log stuck in her throat while trying to make her straight—she had horrible posture. Also Bubble Baby I drowned her in a bubble bath—I use Mr. Bubble Bubbletini Bath Bombs (proudly). Necrophilia Baby—you can guess what I did to him. And all sorts of names—shoot me for not allowing them the grace of being a Bob or a Janice or a Justine, but their participation in the world is minimal and their names were mostly a convenience for me.
I cum-crush the busboys they have come for work but find only freedom in my cunt they enter triumphantly and on their way out flat as tape. Worming their way into the vagina (insert Wikipedia photo here) fear of every moment while they're focused on rhythming their way to orgasm that someone will run the back door housing glitch it poke holes release Gollum in a viral package that'll cut off your nuts.
Elegantly screaming.
The pop-hot! of colliding between the bubble gum chewing lips nut in me baby nut nut nut. Slap you with a fine for droplets that fall out of me each one wasted I take dermis off your fucking epi slide it over Hunter S. Thompson drag a lake pinhole photograph my ass it's only elite if I say it is. As your attorney I advise you to get on your back and take it up the everything starting now and continuing one day after forever.
I coat my tunnel with sandpaper and Tabasco constructed for his pleasure her productivity and the office suite of every other chief in this country is burning to the carpet everything left behind networks keyboards wireless fish tanks burning tires to let the militia know who's cumming you're addicted to my squirt don't pretend you don't think that makes you the most proficient lover from here to the state line. I light my cum on fire latent fracking renders one lip dry the other lip wet come get your dick wet paint it on Cookie Monster's face he could be an amoeba but I don't think Muppets even have sex.
Warning warning warning!
A piece of your lobotomy broke off inside my cunt.
It is staring up at you from the walnut between my legs.
Chewing gum with my labia.
Mostly shaven.
Car wreck.
Train wreck.
Reach inside me (use these chopsticks). Break off a piece of the leather interior limo driven by my kids.
Their names are Bonobo 1 and Bonobo 2.
Your name is Harry. I'll call you Vitchel.
You are my spiky spiky other mother from another bother.
I have a rainforest inside me.
My ass is a ticketed sideshow. You put in a ring and my mechanism turns. It is a forest, a circus. It is a rotary, rosary, a retrograde wheel. It turns by crank and when the clockwork spins a golden door at the end of my ass regenerates baby taxis dipped in Clive Barker's underness, cloaked in red leaves, veined like a shrimp, fathoms below the cockroach an invincible being carrying two massive claws and a forgotten wedding ring. Thus generated twice a second, thrice per annum, derelict reefs left to their own devices sprout a clitoris—shaped like an h—which drives me post-confrontationally into an unavoidable clash.
Fingers on my hips.
You're not allowed to cum until you stop.
Grind it out—no rubbing here.
Massive seafaring clobbery—just stick it in.
Stick it in me.
This is a reverse rape.
I purchased tickets
for a show
Waited
my whole life
to see the band
But
they never came.
And that is when—in the first few minutes of my life?—in the last?—I decided to make my own.