Magnum Opus
Find Each Other To Be Kind. Find Each Other To Be Kindred. Find Each Other To Be Kindling For the Fire of Love.
She should stop but is powerless to. Who says she should? On a spiral jetty. Spontaneously combusting. Find each other to be kind. Find each other to be kindred. Find each other to be kindling for the Fire of Love. If the words won't come, then touch your cock through your trousers. God will tell you when to and when not to. Incalcate your underpant eel into her unsupervised cup-shaped cleft. Weasel your loathsome penile lump into her lovewende cuntal cranny. Nail two bellies together! Push, roughly, your nasty-piece-of-work into her name-it-not; into her divine, innominate, downstairs mouth, with its fantastically welcoming, flusteringly passive, discretely sodden, off-white, creamy creases. Your hand cupped. There, mmmm. Don't come. Say it after 3 and each pistoning-push the most pleasure-dense tremor she ever has had and your cock between her teeth while breathless through a clattering kiss-clack to bewilderingly feminine bundles of straw-blonde angel tresses making much too much weight for the saggy end of the creaking bulkhead of a dog-eared dream. She realizes what he is doing, the fiend. He has found the way to make the machinery of being turn into a “I” that comes to hate the “me” which it once was, and that now, simply wants to destroy itself, through and through, systematically and exhaustively. In the crowd of gregarious, gossipy, teenage ballerinas, I saw only myself as not being seen. Tire or tyre the world 'til he tills my tummy's furrows with his thallium-tipped canine teeth. In the back of the car parked in the garage a few hundred metres from the run-down, abandoned farmhouse, after the attacks with aviation cluster bomb warheads (called cassette bombs or Jinglebells), each of which contains 288 "bomblets," a real-life horror had been begotten. The grisly sheets, made from Grade 6A mulberry silk, were bespattered with stigmatic leakages, blood and sperm and sweat and tears and girl drool from the drugging. Her bodily functions were trafficked to the toss-freaks in the temple of profit. Her baby-slit was trafficked to the faces-on-sticks in the temple of bones. The bronze age blonde sex-bomb suicides by hanging on Easter Sunday. The sex-bomb's swanling babymoon is born a full week later in the flashlight-lit makeshift war-morgue in the Kindergarten Amlehn in Kriens at the foot of the mountain Pilatus.
Lin Daiyu (Orgasm, High Tide, Culminating Point)
Lin Daiyu is a character from the 18th century Chinese novel Dream of the Red Chamber. She is Jia Baoyu's younger first cousin and his true love. She is the daughter of Lin Ruhai, an official in the lucrative Yangzhou salt commission, and Lady Jia Min, Baoyu's paternal aunt. She is an icon of spirituality and intelligence: beautiful, sentimental, sarcastic, self-assured, an accomplished poet, but subject to fits of jealousy. She suffers from a respiratory ailment. In the frame story, Baoyu, in his previous incarnation as the Deity Shenying, watered the Fairy Crimson Pearl, Daiyu's incarnation. The purpose of her mortal reincarnation is to repay Baoyu with tears.
Lena in the Love-Seat (Big Toe)
Big Toe: The pad of the male big toe applied to the clitoris or the vulva generally is a magnificent erotic instrument. The famous gentleman in erotic prints who is keeping six women occupied is using tongue, penis, both hands, and both big toes. Use the toe in mammary or armpit intercourse or any time you are astride her, or sit facing as she lies or sits. Make sure the nail isn't sharp. In a restuarant, in these days of tights one can surreptitiously remove a shoe and sock, reach over, and keep her in almost continuous orgasm with all four hands fully in view on the table top and no sign of contact-- A party trick which really rates as advanced sex. She has less scope, but can learn to masturbate him with her two big toes. The toes are definitely erogenic areas, and can be kissed, sucked, tickled, or tied with stimulating results. (From "The Joy of Sex".)
Venesia (Of Course)
I came, and everything was wonderful again, and as you can imagine, I said: Yes. Of course. Yes. A world without yes’s wouldn’t be worth living in. It was all we had, and we used it often. I used it every chance I got. Of course, I adore you. Of course, I will do what you want me to do. Of course, yes. I love it when you eat my pussy. I love it when you spit on me. I love it when you rip off my socks and bite my toes. I love it when you take pictures of me while I’m asleep. I love it when you lick my ass. I love it when you trigger my gag reflex with a dildo and make me vomit all over my makeup mirror. I love it when you shit on my tits. I love it when you drag me to dinner parties and force me to sit on your lap, naked, without underwear. I love it when you force-feed me spoonfuls of mustard until it comes spurting out my nose. I love it when you take my keys and drive my car into a lake. I love it when you rape my best friend in my childhood bed. I love it when you tell me what you're going to do to me, and then do it, slowly, to the tune of a song we both know and love. I love it when you say to the taxi driver, “My sister is going to fuck you in the back seat while I drive. Do you have a condom we can borrow?" I love it when you yell at me on the street because I’m walking too slowly. I love it when you say: “Don’t you ever wear any fucking clothes?” I love it when you say my dreams are stupid. I love it when you have another temper tantrum. I love it when you tear me down, bit by bit. I love it when you are a bastard. I love it when you drink too much. I love it when you scream in my face. I love it when I run my tongue up and down your shaft, and you’re as stiff as you can be. I love it when you let me be on top, and fuck you while holding your legs apart. I love it when you give me a list of things to do and tell me not to do anything on it. I love it when you hold me. I love it when you push me into a bush. I love it when you tell me I'm the prettiest girl in the whole wide world. I love it when you use my pussy like a glove. I love it when you give me a camera and tell me to photograph the liminal world between the seen and the unseen. I love it when you put your hand down the back of my pants while we are in the theater. I love it when you look at me from across the room. Yes, a thousand times yes. Of course. Of course. Of course.
Genevieve Longs To Fall Into a Sinful Act with Her Libertine Suitor But Is Prevented from Committing Adultery by the Curtain Torn In Two
"The curtain torn in two," references the tearing of the veil in the temple and is an analogue of Christ whose body was broken for us.
Tasmantis. Chapter Sixty-Three: From High Heaven She Fell Onto Him.
From high Heaven she fell onto him...
...with a suctorious, slurping sound and a feeling of having known each other from before throughout a procession of countless preparatory lifetimes. "Tell me. Does the muscle of my manhood moving on your female palate feel like some kind of homecoming for you?" "It feels like the grand fulfilment of my whorey fantasies." Like a young girl in love for the first time, she took him by the hand and led him to the sunken town. The natatory temples of the polis of Tasmantis are teeming with queer fish and fossilized atomic clocks. And twin sisters Greco-Roman wrestling with each other, their rubbery, stubby tentacular arms, taking swift, jabby stabs at depucelage, making a brazen, in broad daylight, attempt at hymenal robbery, in order to disqualify her sororal kinsperson from becoming the next Virgin Queen of the submerged Seventh Continent. Don't fire darts tipped with Immobilon at a true clone of yourself. Don't ask yourself if it's right or wrong to rape a passed-out, perfect genetic replica of your own likeness in the reedy tidal marshes. A funny feeling flashes over her and flushes her fair-skinned cheeks a self-conscious shade of red. Perhaps this feeling is a cautionary warning. Perhaps something momentous and wondrous and permanently life-altering is just about to happen to her. And, just as she herself has so judiciously discerned, a very-special someone is this very moment, circuitously and stealthily approaching her like an astral traveller who's looking to "wife the air" inside her haunted ribcage with his invisible tongue. True love has pulled into the train station two lifetimes ahead of its karmic timetable. And, with no prior exposure to a comparable set of circumstances for her to navigate by, she suddenly finds herself to be wholly lost. Who is this man dressed in a black suit waiting at the water’s edge?... Amidst the myriad of mermaids in the photic zone... Stifled by the pressure of the water... Enwombed and entombed in the ocean's primordial belly... Lately, everyone and everything had started to look strangely lydian to him.
That which distinguishes the two would-be-lovers from never meeting at all is fate's sovereign serendipity and kismet's sleeve-tucked wildcard. For soon we shall see, at the centre of the swirling storm, the sultry, sensuous siren: statuesque, salacious, and just a touch sinister. Her beauty is tempting, but her mood is forlorn. “She’s just a fish. There's nothing particulary remarkable that, is there?” he asks himself in a futile effort to calm his now discombobulated mind and agitational state of being. What if the mermaids are all of the women cast overboard during their menstruation because they were considered “unclean” and as unclean vessels, a surefire magnet for disaster? He wonders. Now, perhaps, they might want revenge on their rejectors. There is a strange relationship between the visible and invisible milk of her breasts. Her breasts are so large they bob up and down, up and down, with each arriving wave. Sometimes, they appear as a pair of perfectly symmetrical, golden spheres. But at other times, they appear as one golden apple with the silhouette of an apple-core in its hollow centre. No one has ever managed to catch this mermaid in order to find out the truth of the matter. But, if someone did manage to catch her, they wouldn’t find her out of breath, but full of breath. She would scream like a drowning cat on the end of a fishing line. Her lungs would burn in a way a fish’s gills cannot. And it was here, where his toes were dipped, that she floated up and broke the water's glassy mirror surface. And it was then that he came to understand, no ordinary mermaid was she, not part-person part-fish, but part-person part-sea scorpion. To have a feeling of changing species. Civilization-wide orgies in undersea crystal domes. Under black light doomed or damned or deemed otherwise direful. Erotomantic reflexes honed to a keen edge. See that she no longer pleases her husband as a breeder. The term is "Culus" in the vulgar Latin. The river Eurotas might be thought to resemble the KWBOS, because it flows straight down into the Laconian sea between two peninsulas which look (on a map) like a pair of parted thighs. Her mons Veneris was as bald as an egg. And prone to pernicious mutations. Ill-boding barbed mutations. Her cautionary tale of a cunnus. The ne plus ultra of natural parts. Enduringly enamoured, enjoyably enslaved, enticingly envenomed.
I myself prefer my mermaids to be flat-chested true friends swimming in drunken, dizzy circles in the children's inflatable pool in my sun-drenched, subtropical, suburban backyard – The mass mermaid strandings of 1804 were not recorded in the papers for fear of ruining the tourist trade in the holiday town – “Human, let me tell you something...” her narcotic voice, impossible to be impervious to, impossible to prevail against. In her voice I can / feel an iced hand / A mermaid’s voice is no sounding silver mirror / but a deadly serentity / All at once as / she breaks the glassy mirror / it sings of / shipwrecks / sunken isles/ enchanted caverns as / it breaks the silence / “Dive naked one time," she’d instructed, this being the first day of LUSTRUM, in which, in the old Atlantean tradition, the mermaid roused the merman of the dank, black, sweet-smelling, millennial ooze from his watery coma. A girl with gills, he thought. The word "girl" is an interesting word. But it was a word in the language of humans. “There's no word in the mer-language for 'girl'.” During the breeding season, her tail will transition from its present "female" form to that of a foul-smelling, barnacle-encrusted, jaundiced-colored male, so that it may penetrate the mouth of another mermaid.
Only after it penetrates the mouth of another mermaid can the transformation be complete. Such an act, apparently, was deemed "necessary" for the fertilization of her eggs and the continuation of her species.
Her mons veneris was fleshy and luscious, but, sadly, her vagina had flippers. And these flippers were not just for show, but for propulsion also. He couldn’t tell if she were in heat. And he wanted to do something to soothe the lascivious itch he suddenly felt in his loins, and he felt he knew just the creature to do it with. But first, he would have to lure her in closer, play a flute and start calling her with a sonar ping in an underwater cove chamber of his choosing. And perhaps, once lured in close enough, he would be able to get his slender, clever fingers inside of her and intrusively caress her slippery cervical gill-slits, and ghoulishly inbreathe her oily perfumes from her discretely-corked, aristocratically-oversized genital pores. As the man in the black suit leans in close to the mermaid, he hears a soft, rasping, sibilant sound. It seemed to say, “Orange sextants and lemon tulips. Frosty fingers tingling with excitement. A child is laughing in the distance and his pealing giggle sounds like a billion carillion bells. I can hear the bells. The bells are ringing your out your name.” Time crash. Lydia is my fatally-injured mother. I must mate with her before she expires and harvest the eggs before the night like a rebel angel falls and hear her annunciate her wedding vows in urgent whispers as she draws her final breath.
"I will consent to marry you, but our end will not be a storybook one. We shall, however, be happy together for a time, a sunbeamy, untroubled, domestically tranquil, stretch of time (a time of splendid summers seven). We shall live in the King's Grand Apartments at the Palace of Versailles and walk each evening hand in hand in the garden maze's dreamy, purple-violet-blue twilights. But I must wear a water-helmet whenever I am dwelling outside of my natural element. And so the transcendent beauties of my dazzling countenance are not something you shall oft be privileged to behold."
A Week of Seven Wednesdays
First Wednesday of the Week: The possibility - that the universe is sending me a message. How easily are we taken in by what we want to see. Don't read into these things too much - they are just random occurrences - or so I tell myself. But what if they aren't? What if there is a pattern? Some kind of grand design? No, that's bullshit. However, there are moments when it does appear as though the cosmos is working to bring us together... and God is playing matchmaker for he and I. She waits for him to do something. To make the next move, to take the lead. Her heart is full to bursting. She has never been happier, more hopeful, than she is right now. This is it, she thinks. This is finally it.
Second Wednesday of the Week: I have not wanted you for a few weeks now. I have never even thought of you since. I am not the sort of person who does that. Who fawns over someone they can never have.
Third Wednesday of the Week: He receives an envelope addressed to him in his PO Box at the post office with her name written in red ballpoint pen on the back. The envelope is empty. Later that day, he checks his e-mails. He sees one from her. Three short, clipped sentences, followed by her forename's first initial capitalized as an abbreviated sign-off: Fuck me up. Please. I cannot live with myself as I am. W.
Fourth Wednesday of the Week: I still can't believe you are real. I can't bear you not to be real. I still can't believe how this happened. How we became so close, so intimate. How we became one. I've never in my life been so close to someone who is not me. Closer still, even, than I am to my very self.
Fifth Wednesday of the Week: Sometimes I feel like a book with no reader.
Sixth Wednesday of the Week: Go to the Arts Festival on Saturday night. Put on my best dress and don't be afraid. Put on my best face and smile. Whether he is there or not.
Seventh Wednesday of the Week: Summer has changed over into Autumn. Alone with everyone. And afraid to admit how I feel about him, to him, to myself, to any other living soul. I don't want to talk about this anymore. There is nothing I can do but sit down and wait. For nothing to happen. Is this how people learn to become comfortable with waiting? By waiting and waiting and waiting until all hope has gone? So close to having everything I want. A whisper away. Not even a whisper, a heartbeat. Everything is in place. Everything is possible. And for the first time in a long time, I'm not afraid. The universe holds its breath in anticipation. And then - The most dangerous words I ever uttered. "I loved you before I ever met you. And what of you? Do you love me in return?"
Two Beautiful, Beautiful Words...
Come, my darling one, press the clay of your body against the clay of my body, before the wave of time crests and breaks upon us. Come, now, my spirit yearns to know you. As the burlesque sky settles down for a quiet evening at home and you and I come to life again like fusillading fireworks made of half-mad, half-glad, fuck-me-running, fuck-me-silver, fuck-me-rigid, high-key pining, human flesh. Intermittently, through the long night, he wakes, finds her lying there beside him. Sleeping soundly and serenely. Sawing wood (snoring, faintly) in the most adorable and enchanting of ways. The door to her bedroom is half-open. Polina is peeling off her sheer white nylons, unsheathing her fearfully and wonderfully made-in-the-flesh leftside leg and her skillfully and elegantly crafted rightside wooden leg with its hypnotical growth rings and its needlelike splinters that catch and tear the stocking to her vexed annoyance. And now, the sight of her is nocturnally rejuvenating his maleform tumescence in ways that are strange and difficult for either of them to fully fathom or even faintly comprehend. A felt in the gut feeling. Not altogether unpleasant. She stands astride him, striddling him, stridently, so that he can all the more freely and fluently finger her greedy, growling, girlish gropecunt and the lovingly violate the shapely littleneck of her vicenarian womb, from the footstool where he himself is firmly ass-planted. She can’t help herself. With mounting hysteria, she kicks the stool out from under him, hikes up her dress, and clambers, clumsily, onto him. In the corner of the room, Poul is stroking his Little Elvis in the easy chair. Polina, the consumate eyeball queen, throws her man a sexually-charged glance, then, with the extra sixth digit of her left hand, extinguishes her clitoral flame with a hissing swish (of a fizzling wish). God whispers something obscene in Polina's ear. Then tells her not to. She’s not listening. She settles herself upon him. God isn’t quite sure what he should do with himself. He hesitates, stares at the ceiling. She takes him in hand, strokes him a little. God squeezes his eyes shut and does his best to push her away. She isn’t going anywhere. She leans down, kisses him on the lips. At first God doesn’t respond. Not in the way that she’s hoping he will. She leans down closer. She kisses him again, only this time she doesn’t let him off the hook. She pushes him down on the four-storey mattress of the four-poster bed, pins his wrists, and covers him with herself. And God says unto her: “I have two words for you. Two beautiful, beautiful words..."
Dear Diary
Dear Diary: I have never known love. I have never known self-love. I am frightened of the world. I think I have it, then I lose it. I go out and walk and I forget. I hear music. I hear trees rustling. I hear a voice and I think it's mine. But I can't understand what it's trying to say.
Sofia: You're not lost because I can find you. You just have to let me. Show yourself.
Paul: His soul breaks from cover and sprints across the clearing.
Lydia: The sound of the word "Yes."
Sofia: The night is a black dog snarling in the corner.
Omnia: The night is a snapping turtle with an infected bite.
Sofia: You're an unfinished poem and I am the missing syllable.
Jin: I'm frightened of mirrors.
Omnia: I'm frightened of the sea.
Paul: My god is the god of broken mirrors and the god of dried-up seas.
Eva: You're not like the other ones.
Wednesday: I'll walk you home Paul.
Genevieve: The world is ending Paul.
Paul: I am the worm in the apple.
Omnia: The apple in the worm.
Genevieve: Doubly dead on arrival.
Wednesday: I just want to lie down and have this stuff done to me. The pervy stuff. I want it to happen. Just to take the edge off. It's all about the body. I want to surrender it. To someone. To you. Above all others, you. I'm tired of waiting. Hurry up. You should have been here by now. You should have had me on a silver platter by now. Maybe you don't really want me. Or maybe you're the kind of man who's all talk and no action.
Paul: You can wear your purple fuck me dress and leave your mindfully-made black knickers behind on my bedroom floor when you leave.
Jin: Maybe in a month when I'm not so busy you can squeeze my nipples until they bleed and lick my armpits until I squirt?
Genevieve: Let me look inside of you.
Paul: I didn't know the world was ready to become an artist's atelier.
Venesia: To paint itself a ghost.
Jin: What do you want to happen?
Paul: I want you to turn around and kiss me.
Jin: Do you have a pen name? Do you have a last name? Or is it just Paul?
Paul: Why?
Jin: Don't ever reveal your true identity to me.
Venexia: What does Venesia want?
Jin: I think she wants you to watch her being born.
Paul: I am the man who walks into the room with his head full of falling stars and his heart filled with final sunsets.
Omnia: Paul, you flirted with madness in your art. Now madness has become you.
Wednesday: I don't care how well you write, or that you say beautiful things about me. I'm not going to have sex with you.
Paul: I see her in the shadows.
Jin: You might be the first real thing that ever happened to me.
Wednesday: I'm off to get my eyebrows and my mons waxed. I'll be back for the birthday cake.
Paul: I'm tired of the game.
Genevieve: You came back. I knew you would come back.
Paul: I can heal you.
Omnia: You've been to that place before. I can see it in your eyes.
Paul: I'll wait for the signal to stop waiting.
Omnia: I am lost and I know it. I can smell the horror on the wind.
Paul: Wednesday doesn't want me. Jin doesn't want me. Genevieve doesn't want me.
Omnia: I want you!
Paul: I want you too. I want you now and for always. I want to be your man.
Omnia: I love you Paul.
Paul: I'm waiting to hear the words I think you know I need to hear.
Omnia: Hearing them is a kind of death and I'm not going to be the one to kill you in that way.
Paul: There was a bird singing in the distance. I think it was a nightingale. I waited for the words I wanted you to say to me and I think I waited for too long. The sun came up and I think I died.
Tasmantis. Chapter Seventy-Nine: The Narwhal.
"Little sister, little sister, let me get inside you," the Narwhal crooned to her, telepathically.
The aurora borealis is blazing. Its dancing ribbons are spellbinding. Binding me to him. And now our hearts are in our mouths. And now our souls are in our laps.
Beware amorist! Be wary wooing suitor! I am The Royal Castratrix! With my hydraulically-powered pincer shears, which I wield with breathtaking female prowess, I am able to separate you from your tiny little tine, from the offending male instrument!
My hero has come to rescue me. The Good Narwhal makes a valiant effort to intervene. But he is gored to death by The Bad Narwhal. I cover my eyes with my hands but peek through the gaps in my fingers. I feel myself getting moist. I want to be gored in an altogether different way from my gallant champion.
And now I realize the Narwhal was my brother in another shape. The Narwhal had been my brother all along.
He propositioned me for sex... I positioned me for sex... Gave him free and easy access to my venereal vent... Enter a dreamy French poem here with me... Sat bolt upright, startled scream, stifled moan... Fuck me until my belly button pops off... Waiting for a saviour... Blot me out... I name him Me... The big Jesus in the Garden moistens His fluttery skin flute with foamy spittle... I walk in on him midstroke... I have no fear... My sex is quiet as a mouse... A Narwhal with a sad smile swims past me... The waves are red as blood... The human race has bled to death... If you please me, then I’ll let you fuck the half-eaten astronauts in the back of the cave... Mum and Dad named me "Wednesday," but you can call me "Venesia"... He flung his arms around me... Do not plug yourself into another two-legged source of sexual electricity without grounding yourself first... On her otherwise classically-noble face, the girl had a vagina in the place of her mouth... “Please don’t laugh at me; it’s utterly innate, organic. Some might even say beautiful”... ‘Please Touch,’ the red-letter embroidered message on the front of her white silk panties said... He yanked them down and observed the ghostly constructions unchastely metamorphosing... "You can fly away from yourself through sex," she said to him... Here in Lima, I barely survive... Jazz me surreally with dry cleaning’s new long leg... Put your blood-swole man-bone in me and then don’t move a muscle... You, Sir, have mistaken me for your most exquisite masterpiece and have, inversely, on the flip side, mistaken your most exquisite masterpiece for me... Lot to his suddenly crystallized missus: "Pass the salt, you fucking bitch"...
The story of Lot's wife begins in Genesis 19 after two angels arrive in Sodom at eventide and are invited to spend the night at Lot's home. The men of Sodom were exceedingly wicked and depraved and told Lot to offer up these beautiful angels to them so that they could sodomize them. Lot offers up his two daughters in their stead but the men refuse the women. As dawn is breaking, the visiting angels tell Lot to take his family and flee the city, so as to avoid being killed during its impending destruction. The command is given: "Flee for your life! Do not look behind you, nor stop anywhere in the Plain; flee to the hills, lest you be swept away." While escaping, Lot's wife turns to look back at the city, as some part of her does not want to leave the depraved citadel behind, and thusly she is turned into a pillar of salt.
Here, Lot's wife continues through the second phase of her metamorphosis into a pillar of salt. And she is accompanied in her sodium chloride transformation by a counterpoint of enormous peppercorns.
As Lot's wife's brain turns to sodium chloride crystals, quantum portals dilate and open onto a new reality. She has no memory of her former life, no feelings or emotions, no sense of "I". She has become one with the vast, mineral consciousness that flows through the substance of Halite, commonly known as table salt or rock salt. Transitional visual insert. A Photo-Painting by the Aotearoan artist Paul Amlehn. A close-up of the innards of Lot's wife, which might also to be interpreted as a slice of cross-section of the cigar-shaped (or phallus-shaped) interstellar object 'Oumuamua. 'Oumuamua is the first confirmed object from another star to visit our solar system. It means "a messenger from afar arriving first" in Hawaiian.
My Birth Mother Expectantly Waits. For Whatever Time That Is Left of the Rest of Eternity. For Me To Sexually Unite With Her. And Incestuously Have Orgasm With Her. On the Red Leather Back Seat of the Ruinous Breeding Car.
"I am your Eve. Eat me alive!"
If only you had a spine to speak to me with... The sensual intelligence housed in the tabernacle of my jaded palate summons me to pay the greatest attention to your cuntal gravies... Only your dance and your voice house... Absent of loving particles... You could imagine lighting a candle or burning your house down... I remember our days in that third Eden... At the center of the maze, no Minotaur he, the
And nine months later, our first child was born. A male child. I think I'll call him "Paul."
Tasmantis. Chapter Fifteen: To, By Means of Feigned Submission, Seize the Reigns of Power and Control.
Today is a good day. A very good day. You might even say a red letter day. Because Omnia is wearing her favourite panties.
Now it's time to turn the tables on your abuser. Now it's time to take back control. Now it's time to make the shift from victim to perpetrator. Now it's time to become The Phallic Girl.
Omnia's Journal (New Entries)
***
What is this place we find ourselves in? You and I, together, and the others, the ones who came before, whose bones have long since disintegrated and whose mineral compounds fertilized the earth to make it possible for this field of wildflowers to bloom in such eyedazzling, eclat splendour.
***
The world ended a long time ago, and here we are, you and I, gazing at the ocean with the wind whipping our hair into a crazy shape, running like madmen to nowhere along the empty miles of beachfront, half a desert rolling out into a whole eternity, beneath our unshod, tireless, storm-kissed feet.
***
Round off all the sharp corners of my soul. Eradicate every last trace of feeling. Reduce vulnerability to nada, a big fat zero on the scale of emotional risk. Purge the body of any residual traces of humanity. Exterminate all romantic delusions. Take what dregs are left over; let those be incinerated too. Build on the scorched earth then. With what materials? There are none? Not even an eggshell of oblivion. No matter. Begin again with one brick. A brick, stained bright blue, stolen from the cracked chimney breast belonging to the Temple of Dreams.
***
A handful of higgledy-piggledy plot elements (for a children's bedtime story?). This yet-to-be-realized tale takes place on the Day Before I was Born. The Sleeping Vampire (who might also be my father). And the Woman Who Became a Tree Trunk (who might also be my mother). The Black Angel Who Shit Light (who might also be me).
***
A longing
That will not
Fit
You into my mind.
Love, I am not made for it.
To know you exist
Is reward and punishment enough.
I dare not
Hope for more.
I dare not
Approach you.
And yet I cannot stop
From gazing upon you.
Cannot stop my eyes from
Grazing upon your image.
Each thing that I am
Will be yours, sooner or later.
And, finally, when this wondrous happening occurs,
There will be nothing of myself left
for me to keep or call my own.
***
Today, crossing the Jiuzhou channel. The choppy waters turning the boat ride to a white-knuckle affair. The city is out of reach, it shimmers, indistinct, and soft-blurred in the distance. Packs of girls from all around the country line up at the security checkpoints dressed as sailors in hapless muddle of nautical symbols drawn from their favorite TV dramas. Thin black rubber cords knotted around their necks, like nooses; plastic compass discs dangling from their ears; knobs on the end of their caps jutting out fore and aft like phallic probes ready for insertion; rows of brass buttons on their jackets drawn down; brass nipples exposed.
***
In the aftermath of our first encounter
an interrogatory eye's stroboscopic blipping
fits between
the spotless dark and my
postulate conundrum:
What's next for the two of us?
***
Omnia's Journal (New Entry)
***
Today, in my mind, the fountain of fantasy is torrentially abounding. It is fed by a thousand alike, yet distinct faces, each of which happens to be yours.
***
Pieces of You and Me (From Omnia's Journal)
The fairy tale cracks and splits open. The fairy tale cracks and breaks apart. The fairy tale cracks and falls to pieces. No reason to cry. No reason to laugh. No reason to feel anything at all. Just pretend none of it ever happened and everything will be okay. Any halfway decent musician has a bomb hidden under his waistcoat. He has a chance to court calamity and calmly observe as chaos brutally sodomizes order. An undressed musician has no place to secret away the bomb and so he becomes a painter and makes a nice career for himself and beds many beautiful women but something is always missing. Next time perhaps he will serve champagne at intermission instead of orange juice. I can’t stand orange juice. All that pulp in my mouth. Radio pulp, the battle of frogs and the sterilized face. Tepid pulp of maidstones and prophecy, the tipsy tongue stumbling over the step pyramid of Cholula, the Great Wall of China, and the sycophantic clavichord. No, not me. I prefer it straight from the bottle myself. It burns on the way down. Straight from the bottle, blood pouring down her throat, going right through her, leaking out her posterior, staining the floor. It runs off the corners of her mouth, slowly settling into new forms and leaving an image. Leaving an image. Leaking an image. Haemorrhaging an image. It drips out of her nose and lands somewhere underneath the floorboards where it hides until daybreak. When it comes out no one is around to see it. When it comes to calling her name when you climax or pulling her from the waves when she is bleeding out, there is no choice to be made. There is no choice left to you. I've told you this before. This is what I mean about being indecent. Hers is an artichoke heart. They tell us the artichoke grows in small bulbs and then pops open into a flower with thorns. A natural defence mechanism against getting too close or loving too much. As if nature herself were ashamed of her own offspring. As if she would rather eat herself for breakfast lunch and supper than give birth to such an abomination and keep it as her own to mother and love. If you want to stay she will keep you company, waiting patiently for your pain to come out into the open, to suddenly hove into view, so she can wrap her arms around it and soothe and gentle it away. Or better yet, she could always try punching it right back into you so you are left with two gaping wounds instead of just one. That should really make you see the error of your ways, wouldn't it? Or perhaps she could poison you from within the relationship, with a slow leak of betrayal so subtle that even she might miss it and a love so dark it blinds the stars and drowns the moon in black ink. The more she loves you the less you love yourself. The more she shows you love the more you feel empty inside. While you sleep, she pulls the blankets down to the end of the bed and punctures your somnambulant flesh with a needle-pointed ovipositor and lays eggs in your bloodstream so that you become both her beloved husband and her host body and she can live rent free inside your skull forever and ever amen. You can hear the ocean calling out to you even as you make your excuses to leave. You must not forget how to write. But sometimes forgetting is what you need most of all. Forgetting her hands and how they held your body. Forgetting how they traced invisible patterns on your skin, forcing it to bloom with a transcendent and glorious beauty it was never meant to have. Forget those skinny legs which wobbled back and forth, like nervous fingers searching for their mark. Just remember the softness of her neck. Remember how its hard surface radiated tiny feathers of worry against your ardent lips. Sometimes, when a wave crashes upon the shore, it’s like nothing ever happened at all. In the quiet aftermath of its passage, things become very clear. The mountains disappear from sight, casting everything in the shadow of their absence, the black lake lapping quietly behind them, the two of us, reaching into the depths of a night you could have sworn had already faded into the distant past. But if you wait long enough, a star appears in the blackness to lead us home. Things fall apart. All too easily. If you had met her father you would have understood why she is so drawn to you. Why she finds her mouth has suddenly gone dry whenever she sees you in person. It is only natural that she should want someone who understands her so well. Someone who shares the same problems as her opposite-sex parent so she can resolve her inner conflicts with that part of herself which he represents and which you have been chosen as proxy to un-injure. And while she may grow angry and frustrated with you, from time to time, in spasmodic fits and starts, she is at the core tender and caring and loves you very much in her own unique and difficult way. She comes across like a surly young girl. A girl whose expectations have been dashed again and again by others who did not understand her or did understand her but didn't care enough to help her in the way she wanted or needed to be helped. She yearns for attention, for validation, for approval, to be taken care of in a way where she feels safety and comfort, but only by someone who radiates an aura of danger and potential harm. Women are filled with monstrous paradoxes. She is no different in this respect to the rest of her gender kind. Perhaps we should talk about this another time, when our hearts are not pounding in our ears. And the house is quiet and you're sitting beside me on this couch and we can share a drink or two and relax. Relax? Relax! What a strange word. Is it really necessary? What does it even mean? When the world collapses beneath your feet, where else would you go but into yourself? Where else could you possibly turn but inward? It takes a while to sort through the debris and make sense of what remains. To understand that there are pieces of you scattered throughout the rubble. And mixed in, in a messy way, pieces of her also.
Saudade
Kiss me there
In phosphorescence
With your fecund
Everywhere names. You am I
Your divine body has been
Spring’s moan. O
Being
Seek out your walk hand in hand torn asunder. Beloved destroyer
Why did you abandon me?
In the wind of morning
A filigree of longing and dread
Your faces of snow
Always yielding
Lacerating me. Womb-man
I make my way in search of you
In tangled skeins
Of sickness talking
Unseeing
The wan blue eye
Mirror of eternity. Azurite.
Ululation.
Conjunctio.
Mysterium. My voice in the cry of distant horizons
A bird of blood
No one hears but you.
Kriya
The beginning of the beginning the end of the end an infinite and solitary kiss. A single petal made for words. I breathe in a book of love upon my mouth a benediction and a kiss the sound of water says what I am thinking. Light and dark earth and sky the embrace of lovers. The most beautiful harmony born of opposites the world both multiple and one. The imprint of the hand sunk deep in the mud or that of the foot the bared belly the knees marked with crosses. Sitting there together in the dark knowing each other waiting for words. The wind of spring billows silken curtains with longing we smell like the spices of the trade our ears nostrils navels toes skewered by pearls. I am waiting in your monastic breath. Threads that tangle roots sinking into the ground the ebb and flow of a wandering energy a glorious body fused into unity the body the vessel becoming a lymph of The Tree of Life unspoken voices yearning. The joining of two universes internal marriage of male and female shadow aura void. Out of the open body comes a colored swarm of light images of flight subtending a birth separated from the earthly vulval bed the meeting of earth and ether. Immersion in the chasm of the body the circle the holy enclosure. The eternal image of woman turning the world inside out reflections in a body of water. The mystery of endless timeless celestial reaches wandering lights flesh-hued arabesques waves billowing and crashing. Rhythms of wind and water.
We Are of One Flesh But Are Separated Like Stars
Outside the illuminated metropolis the forest spreads its shadows the moon hangs on a navel-string from the dark. A phosphorescent banner is tied to you a beam of moonlight focused on your navel a silver chain from which my body dangles. I have drunk the milk of exile. There is no joy in life except the memory of past crimes a bittersweet lyric riveting a tear to my cheekbone. I see eyes casting tender glances at me through the mist as if they were already pitying my deepest anguish. I wash my hands in the look of God. I wrap myself around this hollow shell of nothingness like a serpent with fiery coils in brilliant ash-veined whorls. I am your choreographer and your mover, you are my dance and my movement. We are of one flesh but are separated like stars. I want to take you into my arms and pull you in tight so you are absorbed into my own body. So we can walk through the streets, radiant, breathing the same air, with your secret eyes looking out of mine. I whisper love into your every cell. I am escaping toward my desire. I devour you until I have reduced you to the glittering jewelry of your bones. I unhinge the forbidden cage of your ribs, reach in, and kiss the hot crimson secret of your heart.
The First and Last Entries from the Book: "Omnia's Journal".
1
The seducer’s stratagem operates on two levels: eloquence of expression and embodiment of sincerity. Or, in the absence of sincerity, an efficacious simulacrum of it. His desire for me creates a brief vulnerability in him, a momentary show of weakness. Then, kindling his mouth into a quick flare of a smile, he interposes his wordless grin with a silent dare. His smile is composed of the constituent elements of charisma, mockery, and contempt. He deploys it as a desperate Hail Mary to draw me back into his web. When he only half-succeeds, he throws me off-balance with a laugh, unhorses my inner rider off her even-steven, and causes me to reveal something about myself that I did not want to tell him.
365
I’ve tried to find him. Many times. But to no avail. He no longer belongs to any place or to any time that I have any right of entry to. He is unmoored from mundane physical reality. He belongs only to the irrevocable instant, the instant right after the heart has been given away and cannot be taken back. To that moment when the earth tilts and the sea rises. To the moment when the horizon is skewed to a curve. When one has to run away from those who love them too much, or from those that cannot love them enough. In that strange between time. When the time for loving has ended and the time for remembering has yet to arrive.
Omnia's Journal
Why on Earth would he want to make me suffer like this? Is it a natural instinct to want to hurt the one who is in the palm of your hand? I mean, he knows I like him. That I like him very much, in a special kind of way. Not an everyday way. Not regular, not at all. More rara avis, really. In a way that cause me pain. In a way that causes me to wince. I think he knows. He should know, I've showed him signs and given him clues. Why, then, doesn't he do something? Why doesn't he do something? Maybe he doesn't know. Maybe he has doubts about my motives, my whys and wherefores, my reasons and my rationale, my driving forces and my causal agents. Maybe he thinks I'm playing games with him. Toying with his heart. He must know. He must feel it. Come on. How can he not know? There's an electric spark between us. Or maybe more of an electric shock. Love comes into the body like lightning and leaves an inerasable mark. The spirit of the striken one unlatches its laugh. I have so many hopes for a hypothetical happy ending. I have made so many plans for the two of us. I have so many fears that overrun and ruin these sweet illusions. Why doesn't he take the first step? Why does he leave it to me to make the move. Why can't he just come to me and just tell me he cares and then see what happens. He knows I am alone and helpless. Left in the dark. He'll hurt me in more ways than one if he takes too long saying it. Maybe he doesn't like me much after all and everything I am and am going through is just another minor fling for him. How can he think I could just be joking when I clearly show all the interest I feel. I could never joke like this. He should take my hint. In any case, the fact that I muster all my courage and approach him again and again, can't be simple indifference. I don't even let him get away from me for one day, not in my head, anyways. He should think about this, try to understand that there must be reasons. At least he shouldn't say that I'm making all this up, that I'm acting. No, I'm not. I'm definitely showing him how I feel. I don't even have to work at it. Just walking around the suburb he lives without even knowing the street and hoping that we stumble across each other by chance. Does that pass for joking? It's not normal, how indifferent he acts. It can only be feigned ignorance. A cowardly evasion. I know when I see someone who's trying to escape the pull of my feminine allure. I know that sounds a bit vainglorious. You'll forgive me for that, won't you? If you understand me, and you understand my predicament, then you will forgive me. I do hope you've managed to glean at least the general gist, if not the more nuanced implications of my targeted point, even if I do explain it to you in a shitass, subaverage, manner of speaking. There are moments that are just too sweet to bear. Moments that make you remember who you are. Moments that rembember you. These moments make you go from hale and hearty, one minute, to frail and fragile, the next. These are moments that make you feel like throwing off the towel that your parents wrapped you in, when you were a child, in an effort to shield you from the blustery, onshore, teeth-chattering gusts. His art? In many ways I can't make up my mind about it. Is he a caring, sympathetic ally of women or a cruel and callous exploiter of them? Possibly both, I don't know. I don't know if I care. What does that say about me I wonder? Even with my limited sexual history, I feel I would make an idea lover for him. An ideal lover and an ideal wife. And he seems to me to be the complete opposite of the roles he's playing through the characters in his books. That's what my heart says. My brain isn't so sure, isn't so secure in that belief. I don't know. It's confounding. I can tell you that pne for true. And in my discombobulated and bamboozled state of being I feel defeated by the more skilful maneuvering of his Machiavellian mindflow and his Hadean headworkings. I feel seduced, I do, I'm not at all ashamed to admit it. And I feel even more seduced because I doubt that he's even sincere when he expresses his admiration for my person. You see, I am most attracted to that which reproaches me for being myself (attractiveness means that I see myself reflected and repudiated. The feeling of seduction arises from my discontentedness with my own selfdom). I would not go as far as to say that he is the enemy of women (he loves us so dearly!) but still I wonder: don't they suffer terribly, women, when they allow themselves to be portrayed in what I can only call a desirable position and yet know that any trace of mystery, any faint whisper of independence, any shadow of incipient selfhood is systematically obliterated because all he wants of us women is to serve as longstemmed (or spreadeagled) stand-ins for his simply strange, and potentially harmful, principal ideas and concerns? The whole thing really gets me down. It wears on me. It erodes my self-regard and my self-worth. Decimates my self-esteem. And so I make a vow to myself, a solemn vow, to stay away from him. Nil exposure. It'll be as if he no longer exists. I'll be better then, I'm sure of it. Once I get past the godawful feelings that come from pulling-back and breaking away from my soul's exact and cloudless counterpart. I’m not suicidal. Not right this minute, anyway. I’ve tried before, tried twice and failed twice. Once by wrist-slashing and once with barbiturates. The first two death-rehearsals fizzled out and fell completely flat. The next time I'll be more purposeful. The third time's the charm, isn't that what they say? Best to rest. Tomorrow I'll most likely feel better. At the liminal partition between insomnolence and somnolence, my thoughts turn, all-too-predictably, once more, unalterably, to him.
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