day6-day8

day 6

three theologies of sand
I
‘the ark’
remember the monolith
alien and nocturne
marooned and colliding near the shore
long before the suez
the breath that touched me at the beach
II
‘the 100th day’
children playing in the sun
splashing in the sea
my heart breaks with pain and freedom
my heart mends with freedom from pain
I’m with mother near the shore
III
‘post-resurrection’
where did the sand come from?
pooled next to the head of mothers’ bed
I cannot explain its presence
I only remember the threads
connecting dream to room to reverie


the seventh day
starts off in a lab with fish tanks
popcorn chicken pieces wriggling like new born mice in my hands
quickly, they turn into curled hamsters
ferocious, anxious, leaping from my palms
I bend to their higher worlds
scoop them up from a nest of twigs

I’m out on green fields
hamsters turn into dogs that run to me
‘like long awaited lovers’
“They’ve grown longer, better furred” tespu says
“Is this your sign of return?” I ask him. He does not respond.
he turns into a chattering Eurasian woman
who sees, as I see,
the cocker spaniel, ready to poop

the woman has wrapped the two dogs up like burritos
(Or in a cheesy way without cheese, ‘hot dogs’)
and because of her faith, or responsibility
She packs up the poop in microwavable foil.

she hands me all three burritos in a bag.
the creatures break free from the wrap
they spill out as roasted chicken meat onto the floor
the cocker spaniel has turned into a chicken wing, mostly deboned
the meat wriggles on concrete
maybe I’m to eat them
like some strange sacrament
‘this is my body, this is my dog’


day 8

the mistaken union (previously unreleased)
there is no matrimony between us
we are incursions and errors
wrong codes for the right line


I am not your waters of life
you are not my fabled shore
I am not your host
you are not my parasite
we are on a bridge above the world
Impotent impostors in the place of creation
you shall not be graven, I shall not be grave
we were simply, falsely labelled as exits

but see, the black door is half open
you can enter its gate or leave the room
your river is already given
follow my gaze, but not into this soul
It is not yet primed for your kingdom

watch for the light that I see far away
follow with courage, do not be afraid,
another king shall guide you, for I cannot give you rest

day5

the mystery of k.kawaii (alt take)
the soft world, cools her, holds her when it breathes
burning strands of tobacco sizzles on her skin
her heart is a glare of television night
her hand will reveal the end signs, shot on large format cameras
these archetypes are not her archetypes
she is not born for those times
but those times will conceive her
in motel rooms, in a cave, on a ship, near a tomb
her mouth opens for a lighthouse, her hair longs for the highways,
her sounded bends to the constructs in the east
“there are mourners beneath the tree of tespu, on his mountains, children will play”
the soft world pushes her out to sea
and like schools of fish, drowned tuxedoes follow
there are bridal showers behind her eyes
there are glowing drifts of tobacco leaves, touching black paint on her lips
she does not want to remember the film
but the film is an infant that feeds her

day4


“the tomb is on a ship, the ship is in a cave, the cave is a signal, the signal is a figment of tespu” – lord anon
Kawaii from Korea is crying on the ancient bed
“mother…father…”
the wolf-dog is comforting her, head on her lap,
“she is mourning the complex”the blind one said
I’m rolling a cigarette, heart broken by the sobbing sounds
“madre…fadre…”
“Ït’s ok” the blind one says softly. “they are now timeless, in a monochrome hotel, dancing to old songs they loved.”

She is becoming younger in her grief. I did not expect her to carry this pain with me. Her sorrow seems to be making my tobacco taste better. Such strange medicine, this girl, this recurring spirit who visits me from the dawn.

The dog-wolf lifts its head and looks at me. Eyes, white as snow.
It sends me a time, a place, a continuum. a book unfolds within me. a name. an invocation.
‘omandae.’

The blind one senses this. He warns us.
“Only +espu can call it into our world…”
I contemplate my cigarette.
“…and only you can call tespu back from Golgotha.”
I blow out my last drag,
K. Kawaii is finally asleep.

#kkawaii ch 2- 3

she opened the doorways with her cheap, cock sucking orifice.

Part vision, part dream, part memory, we find ourselves thinking of night, in some distant history, waking to the sound of waves lapping against the cabinet of crystals in the house of afrioca. we find ourselves watching a hologram of us, back when we only considered ourselves to be the singular: me, him, his, mine. he. we find ourselves watching a hologram of a man standing before a great hole in the balcony wall overlooking the sea.  it was a cave entrance, twenty one stories above ground, opened up to the sky and sea of tankers, cruise ships, patrol boats, with no humans.

we remember the time following the black hole that appeared on our horizons for 3.33milliseconds. less than a blink of an eye that changed the DNA of reality as we knew it forever.

we remember standing in ankle deep sea water in the house, waiting for the girl with the cut throat, waiting for the bloated man, waiting to become the Archangel Ardenai. we remember descending the tower,  the late night parties in the streets, the warehouses, basement rave clubs, a bar in  the desert, the society of night.

we remembered coming home to a house full of whores. succubi, born from the fatal nocturnes of innocent girls, taken by the hand of gr’hg.

we ask Kei if she was one of them.

“I’ve made peace with that story.” was all she said, there on her knees, cleaning the remains of my old life force from the underbelly of my shaft.

 

__

we want to know the impulse that created you

was it the occasional wild dog that strays into our house?

eating rampant meat that grows from moss in the corners of the rooms?

do these dogs lay in the blankets that once covered sore bodies?

twitching and gnashing teeth through the night until morn when they

sometimes turn into hairless naked boys or

Babylonian priestess harlots?

are you one of these fierce sexual fiends?

___

we don’t know where she got the photographs. the ones of her modelling for young hearts lingerie.

she plastered them to the cracked room wall one night when we had passed out for a day and a half.

we woke up to those pictures, high gloss portraits of a slightly younger Kei

in light blue low cut mini panties, a cartoon baby seal printed on the crotch with the words ‘you make me happy’ above it; her face full of sadness and glistening tears.

Kei in white panties with tiny red and pink hearts and a bow at the centre of the waist band. The blotch of fresh blood on her crotch kept changing shapes.

Kei in various coloured neon wigs, in Japanese school girl uniforms, half burnt and torn, Thaipusam spikes through her tender cheeks.

Kei shrivelled and naked in Shibari ropes, bandaged, medical fetish Kei, mummified Kei, Butoh darkness Kei.

we woke up to see her scribbling long letters on the black wall with chalk, her slender back facing us, full of old lash marks. we lay there naked and limp, watching slow, transparent gel worms moving down the side of her inner thighs. we watched quietly for a long while as she tip toed, tensing her petite, nubile bum, to write Sanskrit passages on the higher wall.

“you were the most violent,” she said, breaking the silence, not turning to us, as if knowing we had stirred from formless sleep. “but you were also the most loving.”

“we don’t remember you that way. the violence we mean.”

“how do you remember me?” she turned, there were red ants on her teenage breasts, she dropped the chalk.

“bringing you to school.” we pointed to the pic of her in the japanese school girl uniform. “before the bombs fell. the snow. the unagi.”

“unagi? you never did a photoshoot with those things writhing in my cunt.”

“no, no. unagi the dish.”

she turned back to the wall, “I don’t remember liking that dish.”

k.kawaii – CH1 – hell hole kitty cums #surrealism #erotica

 

she came to us like a drowned rat, in a skimpy hello kitty t-shirt, torn and wet, stuck to her body

like how our cum would stick to her body in the days to come.

and of course there were strange signs before her arrival. the blackouts – both loss of electricity in the night and the passing out of consciousness. the wavy pink dreams, the smell of cunt from nowhere, the premature ejaculations while watching cartoons completely drugged out.

when we first saw her standing there at our gate, dripping wet, gripping her damaged, neon green tote bag bulking with vibrators, we thought we had consumed a bad batch.

“you’re a figment of our imagination” we said. she was too half frozen, teeth chattering to reply. she had one white long stocking on. tight stretched spandex thing with black unicorn heads printed on. we could see her erect nipples through the soaked t-shirt.

“you’re a figment of our wet-

“food” she said. before passing out.

and of course we kept her in the cage. too dangerous these days for young girls to be wandering around the streets in the dark with no shorts or underwear or weapons. we kept her warm with our unwashed blankets, a bowl of milk by her head in case she woke up. a stack of black garbage bags in case she died in the night. but she didn’t die. she didn’t wake up either, for two days straight.

during those 48 hours, time vanished when we expected it to. we sat before her sleeping form in the cage and tried not to touch her. our hands grew strangely hot if we tried. we touched ourselves instead but felt a holy need to conserve our spunk.

our phone line had mysteriously gone dead. our organic drugs started growing out of its containers on their own, so we simply consumed and studied the mysteries of flesh beneath the blanket. no other stupid thoughts like calling social services or fixers or gang bangers. she became an edifice, a bundled breathing altar of delights and worship, an exciting detour in the banal roads of our lives. we didn’t know what it all meant, at least not then.

her first few words when she regained consciousness were “panties” “knife” “batteries.” we gave her a butter knife but she spat in our faces. we slapped her and she liked it. She had finished our stash of milk like a ravenous kitten. we left the cage gate open, tried to coax her to crawl to our spread legs but she didn’t want to come out. we looked for a leash but couldn’t find it even though we knew we had it.

we went out to buy bread and cheese but she refused to eat such things. we had no extra money yet to buy her little underthings or new pet accessories.

“white drink” she kept saying in between periods of comatose sleep. we assumed it was milk she wanted, but after another day of guzzling nothing but milk, she appeared to be well fed but fed up, turning her head away in defiance every time we pointed to the bowl or to our grounds. she didn’t drink for another 24 hours. it was getting exasperating.

she then decided one morning at six a.m. to teach us the real meaning of ‘white drink.’ “wake up motherfuckers!” she yelled. “give me your cock.” she whispered.

our first orgasm from the first blow job she ever gave us made us pass out into a world of hazy, neon fogged dreams. in those dreams we remained conscious of her warm, slippery tongue rollicking, twirling and flickering against sensitive spots we never knew we had. she kept swallowing, eyes rolling into her head with severe ecstasy. When she was done, smacking her lips, she curled up to sleep with her fingers in her cleanly shaved pussy. “Get some fucking batteries” she kept muttering before she passed out again. we found it harder and harder to emerge from our weird dreams.

We had to convene with ourselves to decide what was happening.

– I think we have to restart our medicine.
– We’re trapped in the visions of a bad batch.
– We are stuck in the head of a perverted writer.
– She’s real guys, I mean, come on, we can smell her, we can feel her tongue!.
– I still think she’s a figment of our wet/
“I need a job if we’re going to get through this together.”
Her voice startled us.
loud and resonant like the sound of god scolding.
She was kneeling outside her cage, legs slightly apart, completely naked before us, pussy juice dripping, eyes clear, almost full of light. Her hair, long and black and glorious like a lamb.

We didn’t even know her name…

“Kei.”

What?

“My name is Kei. And you are my fathers.”