My pretty pussy learned to cum. She flowered—a gladiolus—nightmared me cuddled a rocker to soundstage awkwardness legs together and that drip drip drip straddled over the toilet like a cat learning to go without her litter box paws strangling the space and plop plop plop a clump trailing trails of dye wisps of redness in the poopy water and at the end we flush it down down drown spinning perspective of the room seen from within the pipes.
Bowl catalog when I was younger we had a cat his name was Henry then we discovered he was a she and she became Henrietta. I rubbed my face in her face so hard she was so soft but the camel's back was when I threw her across the room pounced against the rim I was Kobe and we had to get rid of the cat.
Chat. My French word dummy. Pussy for Dummies. Let's encode the rollercoaster-sewn gauntlet 12 layers of inner lips to inner lips to lips inward rambling rumbling wood and steel-framed elegances there is a ballerina spinning atop the first hill—do you think you can make it?
I touch the pad from tongue to ass, tongue to ass—this is the OCD ritual of a girl on the porcelain throne in my kingdom I am queen of all that goes on outside this room but between my scissors is a no-go zone over which even I have no jurisdiction.
Loose screw on the track—could bring down the entire superstructure.
When you hear me in your youth I'll sound this way my whole life—as if trachea had no shelf life compared to—say—a face.
And what if I wrote poetry in the shade of great writers—do you think anyone would notice? That's what my mentor said and we are like Benjamin Button—at this point I'm a thousand years older than her and she is a comfort baby I rock and wipe her ass.
You cannot control it. You cannot start it flowing and you cannot stop it but you can shape its flow. Therefore I am a river and a river goddess painting time red with the most healing cells in the universe. They're all between my legs: armies, populations, future Martin Luther Kings. Heinous criminals, hardened battle drones, molecules in training, doves.
Videodrome: characterless television static with a background noise of wind chimes, vanilla butter cream, battle-torn icing they said my cousin was easier to talk to than me but that makes sense since she isn't saying anything. They said my essay was nonsensical but that makes sense since I wrote my manifesto.
You couldn't follow my stitching?
Is it a problem with the stitching—
—or the follower? When I ducked into a Jo-Ann fabrics in my 14 zone the sky was rims of cotton blinding fluor-essence tracks in six-fold directions highways in the foam ceiling kidnapping my small pussy toilet plunger I spent one minute too long in the bathroom and everyone was waiting outside the door when I emerged—like—looking me up and down and shit and I put my fingers in my pockets pushed down denim Jockey jeans tripped over dragon heels lamented the timepiece hanging in the wind popped cherry bubble gum and shifted my hips to say: Where were you when I gained my adulthood? Where were you when I became a woman pincing my thighs together containing blood oceans and waves to be parted by future orators standing on beaches practicing their projection? Participle in the lame style. Series of sequences like one month one month one day one day minute minute hour and the alley of power Seinfeld that's my thigh gap slightly Kubrick elevators powering blood from basements to ceilings rooftop doll parties bring your own blood! When I pass away minions will crawl from me swimming down towers, rings, the cadence of bubbles, kings, and a soirée fit for a breed.
That's a clot for my less educated.
I operate within a structure of the moon, lied down and gave up everything else, running the narrow track between gadfly and Gatsby, tickling the pupa of a monarch butterfly—they look like yarn, heavens to Betsy, tear me like that. One minute we're in the psych hospice lunchroom the next you disappear I get the news your belly got caught up in a coke syringe which makes me want to cum, too—'stead I'm locked up (as is typical) in a prison of my own creation red room stacked one wall with terrariums for the fetuses I own.
One tack, two tack, three tack, four.
I checked my own shoe size and it was one-hundred.
My IQ came back as an irrational number.
Took every test in watercolor and the Scantron couldn't read it.
Blew my pussy up with Trident and C-4—that's when I knew it was real, son. Blistering through a midwest winter imagine all the blood flushed to oblivion by innocent maggots like me swallowing bitter fingernails fertile squares of parquet kitchens we made it to the murder channel 24/7 killing if innocent beings. Did you ever notice how important it is for people to think that all those victims were innocent? We don't even think it's wrong to kill—we only pity the innocent. Well, when my neck gets wrung by the grim reaper I hope you'll know I didn't go without sin. I wasn't one of the innocent ones—I'm a victim and I'm guilty of every crime that's listed in the codex.