lord is the life of kingfisher who misses the uncle of lost causes



p 9-10

the more i let constance through in this moleskine, the more she reveals her ruined life. i still don’t know her real age or when she had died but today’s exposition is troubling (to readers, not to me), so out of respect i will not detail the experiences she expressed through the texts. you may most likely be able to read a bit of what she said but trigger warnings of abuse applies. P9-109-10.jpg


99 / 99

and how drunk
the infonaut become
barefoot with hunger

faced with endless place
of dune diabolical
monochrome room

and sought he shelter
on the wall of tespu

sought he beauty
‘terrible and profound’
of the 99

many tongues in one nation
drawn out by expedition

in the courtyard
where the shell of astronaut lay

into the bunker
into the disco
under earth

under oath
sword into
core creatrix cunt of constance

“only the strong”
said he, gentleman
“only the strange.”

#99tespus #irvingpaulpereira

a confession of tespu to his manucfactured duaghter constance


i know this kind of impending storm
like a lover
bruised, swirling, heavy hearted


she upsets the family kitchen above
messing up clothes line
so it dangles, disoriented, before my window


it’s full of lingerie on pink clothespins
they dance to pump blood into my organ
I reach out, to play among the undergarments


the clothesline unhooks itself like a bra
and tumbles into my abandoned house
into my pointless kitchen
into my quacking hands


I search for the skimpiest piece
the freshly washed among
large, flag like garments belonging to grandmothers


my fingers part layers hiding erotic treasure
no, no, no,
my groin churns with excitement


but the voice of the woman from upstairs

breaks through the noise inside. I also
know this kind of inward storm like a lover


between my fingers
I finally find myself feeling out the fabric of
cartoon underwear belonging to children


colourful animals
printed on the backside of panties
are laughing and jumping through hoops


and in the crotch
is a letter from their mother to her younger self
painfully speaking of burden
of loving one girl more than the other


“but I can love them all” I say
my palms read like a sweaty, dark haven bible
“I am the storm inside the life of innocence.”


but only the storm is listening



the house is really pointless and abandoned
i search my head for the voice of young mother
but only find a lost boy inside


I find difficulty
putting the clothes line back on unstable hangers
it dangles with the peril of lightning
threatening to let go
to fall into my wide aching jaws
to clap and to
laugh at me, uselessly jumping through hoops.








in the last days of tespu
sea spray

bed sheet
tangled with the veil of her

a horizon of heat seekers
sleeping against the wall

wet constructs from the pit of nose
molten brain’d

rusting nail to hang lost pictures
phone numbers scrawled

shadows trapped in brick
tenuous in teeth
pure water

yellow in its dusk
tusks of forgotten pleasures

layered in purple rooms
saints of evidence

“maybe the bird lang”
she said
“vaccine the future”

#99tespus #irvingpaulpereira