Author: j6pf4

A lady who did not like limerence
Set off to have sex with indifference
Her mammoth clitoris
Like a tyrannosaurus
Set off to orgasm with beneficence

She slept with mailmen and street sweepers
Get nailed up against Virginia Creepers
Got a rash on her vag
But because she’s a Sag
Was impatient to plunge even deeper

While listless she came to the club
In the corner jumped in the hot tub
I called her my pet
And because she was wet
Up against me she commenced to rub

She’s looking for something not licit
Here, take this, I won’t even miss it
She swallowed it whole
Then could not feel her soul
I wish that I weren’t complicit

I burned her with hot sexy wax
It made her feel good #FACTS
The forces of friction
If you’ll pardon my diction
Gave her a twitching attack

In the morning we went to a diner
I’m sorry, there was nothing finer
We ordered some eggs
While she said, on her legs
I can’t sit straight, so where’s the recliner?

We ate danish and lady fingers
Just like a good dream when it lingers
Coffee and contragestion
Sleep was out of the question
We were surrounded by Meistersingers

During the New Deal, no one knew they were nude.
This is what folk singers of the period tell us.

People were too busy working, building ugly office blocks, and track and field facilities, and, occasionally, theaters.

They would build bridges without bras. Build carparks without codpieces. Erect LGA airport without a lick of clothing on.
Manifest libraries with visible labia. It didn’t matter if you had an innie or an outie. No one was refused admission.

When everyone works together as comrades, you see, it doesn’t matter what you’re wearing. Different kinds of clothing are a divisive tactic imposed by the class system. So, when we work together, we can assume we have come back to an age of innocence, where such discernments are not the point.

To my critics who say such a thing is indecent….I don’t give a Hoover Dam what you think.

To those who say wait a minute, I saw that mural that Diego Rivera painted of all the wonderful workers of the western world laying bricks and putting up drywall, okay, okay. Who’s to say they didn’t give Diego a bottle of tequila and ask him to cross his eyes, turn around twice, and THEN paint the mural? American clothing, if you could get it at the time, was dirty and not worth wearing. Besides, all the WPA projects were completed during the summer months, obviously. You wouldn’t build the Triborough Bridge during a snowstorm, would you? Did god give us muscles so we hide them away? Are workers allowed to believe in god? Will she get mad?

The one thing that all the workers of the western world could agree on back then–all 99% of the population–was that we must all start anew. Not like a new constitution, or a revolution or anything up that alley. More like, everyone would make a New Deal Resolution to like the old things just fine as long as there was a paycheck involved. Or maybe some bagels.
You can tell how much everyone liked the New Deal. All those highways, so straight, so many arches, and flagpoles, with eagles carved on them.

She had what seemed like a very silly compunction. She avoided storefronts with signs that featured compound modifiers.

It all started when she and her girlfriend had moved in together and were hotly debating whether to adopt a Shih Tzu. Little did either of them know that this incident, and their polarized takes on it, would spotlight their completely opposed attachment styles. Not to mention their existential, karmic baggage. Surely, only someone unconcerned about enlightenment would allow “dykes with butch haircuts” to come anywhere near a long-haired dog.

It was summer. They had lit the citronella candles on the patio to repel mosquitoes and bad blood and past lives. They had saged the bedroom. Was it too early in their lifetime love bond to get a dog? More to the point, would a Shih Tzu, which means Lion, be beneficial during the year of the Tiger? Was it cruel to cut a dog’s nails? Should this be done by a professional?

A short stroll from their place was a little hole in the wall called Self-Dog Wash. It seemed very clear what happened there. You went in to wash your dog, by yourself. But, no. She had her hand on the doorknob and fainted from the rush of colors. A bystander and her Yorkie quickly sprang to her assistance, and in no time her face was licked (by both the bystander and the Yorkie) until she regained consciousness. Nothing to worry about, she assured them with thanks. As a HSP–surely you know what that means, don’t you? You don’t? Should I be offended? I’m just kidding, I learned not to be offended, now I’m just indignant! As a HSP, sometimes I pick up vibrations, and, not to blame you or anyone else, whoever let those intentions, for what else are vibrations but the good intentions that pave the way to hell?, just let them fly, well, they will keep going in their trajectory until somewhere, on this planet? on the astral plane? Deep Playa? Santa Fe?, they hit a target, and bullseye her in the chest. That is what happened to me, but look at me laugh at trouble and pick myself off the ground.

By this time, the bystander had grabbed the Yorkie and run away down Graham Avenue, a place which had Dissociative Identity Disorder and sometimes called itself Avenida de Puerto Rico and other times Via Vespucci.

Self-Dog Wash! That must mean there is an inner dog. That dog is dirty, oh so dirty. Let the dog out! How dare you imprison the benign canine! Self-Dog. Do not question the hyphen. That hyphen is there is a bridge. A covalent bond. A mystic marriage of Sweet and Savory. An atom-smashing moment of absolutely dreadful certainty.

Back home she went. How can we be in love when you haven’t even washed your inner dog? Don’t you know you’re wearing an invisible leash? After that, she had a hard time remembering what she said during the conflict. Suffice it to say, it led to the locks being changed.

To this day, she refuses to live in any dwelling where metal keys are required. But magnetic entry cards are OK, and are below her HSP threshold. The less physical items required to cross a barrier, the less sensory information floods back.

One thing, however, remains to be said. Who is the narrator here? It is I, Yetta the Yorkie. I saw most of it, and what I didn’t see. well, that lady’s neighbor’s Labrador told me the next day at the dog run. Humans think they’re highly sensitive, fine, but just imagine how much better you can read the room after thoroughly licking someone’s face.

We at the secret service are looking for an undercover urchin. He is known to hide in plain sight, by being so ugly that no one could suspect him of planning greatly dangerous things.

Where to look for a dirty, disgusting human being nowadays? Well, that’s the trouble. All the regular stores had been put out of business by “Legal Dispensaries”. Half of these were really shit, and were never going to be able to pay their rent. They then closed down, making some streets into ghost towns. Meanwhile, poor people came to the hood to beg for money, and crowded the subway stations. It wasn’t that there were no urchins, but that there were so many echt specimens of the lumpenproletatiat. How to find just one?

Plus, if the legends were true, the guy they were looking for used to be a porn star. Now, this didn’t necessarily exclude him from being ugly. After all, the thing the camera is least likely to focus on is the guy’s face, of course. What could be more unnecessary? Like a TV set on a honeymoon! Like reading the Constitution for the first time after you already voted for Trump twice! Like a bird in hand when you already have two in the bush!

Or was he that ugly? He had starred in several art-porn pieces, such as the Roman-themed gladiator movie where he had exclaimed “My name is Echinus! Be afraid of my penis!” However, for most shots of him in this movie, he is wearing a fancy helmet with cock feathers, bright sun glinting into the camera. “What’s he like? It’s not important.” In those feel-good, wide angle shots, sometimes the whole is bigger than its parts.

And then, according to his file, that’s when he cracked. Somewhere between the casting couch and the latex crotch. Somewhere in the insterstices between anus and heinous, after the foreskin was folded back up and the director yelled “Cut!” Or was it the DP? That would take too long to explain. Anyway, somewhere deep in the cracks, lost in the sauce, he went from being cast as someone trying to rule the world to actually wanting to take over the world in real life. Note: real life means different things to different people.

It was like an Echo and the Bunnymen song. Don’t ask me which one, there’s no time to chat about these things now. This man had followers, and they were all credulous, and together they were a credible threat. This was according to military intelligence. Which is an oxymoron. Which…look, IYKYK.

One day, they will catch this agent provocateur. Maybe by using echography. But when they look at the ultrasound, they will only see something beautiful, because anything in motion cannot be anything but beautiful.

“A Sobering Thought”

written by David Rigano
directed by Christian Cewulka
featuring Colin MacGeorge, Ed Malin, Sarah Misch, & John Noel

I melt, combust and evaporate every time you bring me keloid lime pie.
I know you know we both know what that means. It doesn’t matter where we are, we’re in Florida and you’re lashing me until I get some color in my sick ass white body.
Sorry, I know we agreed to use code. I luv how you always give me a crop top. You tenderize everything in my upper body, and if people need to see it they do and if they don’t they don’t.
You tell me my midriff is all people should be looking at, and I believe you. You say mid is special and special is mid.
It’s so easy to believe the things you say when I watch your tongue, which reminds me of a ferret wrestling a snake. And I think of how your tongue feels on my body and I know it’s not bestiality but that’s just what excites my imagination nowadays.
Thanks to you, I have several congenial diseases. You taught me that’s the appropriate way to spell it. You smile and say disease is how we feel we’re alive.
Any excuse to bludgeon the one you love. I can still hear you speaking the words of John Donne: “Batter my heart, three-person’d God, as yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend, that I may rise and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
When I inquire about the three-person’d part, you whisper that’s why you only beat me on Wednesdays.

The Jester is making people laugh. That is good. He will get to eat tonight. At the royal palace of Versailles, no less.
He rubs his belly. All these signs make the signifiers very happy. He makes unseen things visible, this guy, with his big and little gestures.
All this is a bonus, a serendipitous coinkidink as we might say, because the jester himself is deaf.
As the Jester walks away from where he performed, a courtier stands in his way. Following custom, the courtier makes a sweeping bow, the kind which shows you what “ostentatious” means even if you don’t have a dictionary. The Jester breathes, then gesticulates his way through a bow which is much more involved and probably can’t be topped by the other fellow. In any case, if the courtier tried to do something that gymnastic, his fake-ass wig would likely tumble off his head.
The year is 1788. December. Things are going well for the Jester. He is 18 years old. He was raised in a religious school where, lucky him, French Sign Language was invented and that was only in 1771. He grew up with this shit. Sure, society was not exactly equal, but if someone like him could perform in front of the King, then things must be on their way to equal access and prosperity. Perhaps, at this rate, poverty would be eliminated by, maybe, 1795.
A gentleman sat in the back row, sneering at him. Most of the aristocratic guests had left the performance space to dance a quadrille or other bullshit. This gentleman was still sneering at him, seeming very sad. Then the Jester remembered his name. It was de Sade, the Marquis de Sade. If anyone from the quote unquote normal world were to start using sign language, one would not expect it to be this person.
‘How are you?’ he signed.
‘Living my best life,’ signed the Jester.
‘Glad to hear. So, how about this brouhaha with The Third Estate?’
This guy was very good at sign language. The skill extended to certain abstract terms that take too long to explain in word language.
‘Not really at liberty to talk about it. But, all things being equal.’
‘I’ll tell you about equality,’ whisper-signed the Marquis, as he rose to leave. ‘This is like telling the King FUCK YOU. And if he’s fucked, I’m fucked, we’re all equally fucked.’
The Marquis de Sade, it turned out, had an excellent grasp of how parts are subsumed in the whole. This would someday be referred to as the Gestalt, for those who might live long enough to encounter the term. We would not live that long. We were more fucked than fucked. Don’t forget to make a grand gesture of it.

I wonder if what they say is true
That you can fly inside a canoe
Across the world of joy and smog
And dock yourself at the Isle of Dogs

The Canary Islands in Spanish are the Isles of Dogs. The Isle of Dogs in London is where you find Canary Wharf. My lawyer advises me not to talk about this one. When I inquired why on earth for, he advised “fuck around and find out”.

Is this a dangerous thing to talk about? How exciting! You see, in 1597, playwrights Ben Jonson and Thomas Nashe wrote and performed “The Isle of Dogs” in London. They went to jail for a year as a result of this. No copies of the play are known to exist. Jonson is otherwise known for his Comedies of Humors, and plays in which characters, usually unsavory Italian types, act like animals and are named after them.

Ooh, cool. Elizabeth the First (and the Second, too) has kicked the bucket, so surely no one will put me in the nick for writing my own version of this lost masterpiece.

Act The First
Gastronomo, the Male Prostitute, yanks back the curtain and crab walks onstage.
GASTRONOMO:
Oh hail mightiest Queen Elizabeth
They sing to you paeans of Venus
I wonder if what they say could be true
The Virgin Queen perchance she hath a penis
Shee is known to fuck a hole in the wall
That keepeth Britain chain’d and fenc’d away
And now across the great wide world we swarm
SInce Spanish fuckery is out the way
Forsooth therefore to explain to me why I am curs’d
Shat on by martinets and sycophants
This world of douchebags and bright red ants
Is like a nightmare perspective revers’d
Prithee do not cut out my right eye
In case my tongue so much offendeth thee
Alas you threw me in a canister
Beneath your fucking sacred canopy

Not much is coming to me beyond the opening soliloquy
Perhaps the play abruptly ended and Gastronomo was forced to make hush money payments to Queen Elizabeth.
Or, instead, Queen Elizabeth made payments to Gastronomo for “filling the royal coffers” which is a euphemism for sexual intercourse. This led to skipping the rising action and proceeding directly to the climax.

All I can tell you is that it’s very hard to build a stage inside a canoe, let alone hang lekos and fresnels and spotlights. Maybe that’s why a canoe is a place relatively free of drama.

The province of Moesia Inferior was in trouble.
Invaders were at the gates of Varna. These were not particularly smart invaders, because the smart invaders always sailed around to the Black Sea side of the city and walked right in. At least now, Moesia Inferior need not have that much of an inferiority complex.

Rome had tried to tell these people: You’re the Bottom, I’m the Top. Did they listen? No, they took the best of Roman culture, like mineral baths and cannoli, and lived a fun life.

One day, a watchman named Radovan was on lookout duty when he saw the barbarians set up camp on the plains outside the city. Were they invading? No, not yet, so he called his friend Dinko over to ask what to do. Just keep watching them and see if they have weapons or whatever. Radovan watched the invaders put up their gaudy tents, which seemed to have been looted from other settlements, and install what looked like a very large sun deck. Dinko suggested, these may be Northern Barbarians, the kind of people on the other side of the Danube. They live in cold places, so it’s perfectly understandable that they want to come out here and lounge around in the sun.

For several days, the invaders didn’t invade. Watchmen came and went, and once again it was Radovan’s turn. As the sun climbed in the sky, he used his spyglass to observe some migrating birds. Then, his eyes landed on the barbarians’ sun deck, and he saw something he could not unsee. A warrior man with many strange tattoos lay naked on his back. Another warrior man, also naked but wearing a collar with a chain attached knelt before the first man, and put his priapus inside his mouth. “Cannibals!!” Radko clenched and looked away. He ran to the nearby gong, which had been a gift of Caesar Augustus, and banged away as though his little heart would burst. The rest of the city looked up from doing their mosaics and pressing grapes into wine. “Did you say ‘cannibals’?” “See for yourselves!” No one could bear to keep looking too long and hard at the sausage swallowing and what was surely bloody carnage and dismemberment.

Well, after the city council had been convened, they decided to defend themselves. They lined up their cannons, all three of them, on the wall facing away from the Black Sea. That was the heavy part. They aligned the cannons. They cannonized the cannoli. And they shot their creamy missiles at the cannibals.

As expected, the naked sundeck of muscled invaders did not react well to being drenched in dripping, white, creamy liquid. They screamed, and yelled that the Wrath of Khan would be directed at the city. Some invaders then got the idea to lick the running, sweet ambrosia off of the other men’s bodies. Again, watchman Radovan had to look away in despair.

The next day the city was invaded. Not much to tell about. Once the barbarians had put on their armor and saddled their mighty Asian Steppe horses, flying pastry were not serving as a deterrent, Indeed, during the next century, cannoli were banned as per Mongol rule #438: if it doesn’t have something to do with horses, we don’t need it. Anyone who wanted to enjoy the secret local tradition, well, they did it in secret. Only with the coming of the Ottomans in 1396 was it again legal to eat cannoli on main street. Say what you want to about the Turks, if it goes with coffee it’s a gift from god.

That is why, to this day, the canonical history of Varna and Veliki Tarnovo sings of the bittersweet resistance wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a cannoli.

I only cry in my dreams. It’s called Oneiric Onion Syndrome.
You’d think I’m unhappy, or inhibited, or something. I don’t think I’m any of these things.
I go to Jets games and tailgate. I laugh and scream. Everything’s fine. I said, everything’s fine.
My doctor says she thinks I cry in my dreams because I wake up with my sheets wet.
I am a very happy woman. I solve crossword puzzles. I solve them during Jets games. Maybe I am doing this to assert my agency when my husband brings me to watch a shitty team that never wins.
My doctor has green eyes like emeralds, like Jets uniforms. I bet my husband doesn’t know what color my eyes are. I want my doctor to tackle me, pin me down and whisper OOS in my ear.
OOS may be an acronym for Oneiric Onion Syndrome, but it feels like the sweet release through breath of all the dreams I don’t remember. When I say OOS, I shudder inside and I see my body hurtling through space like a field goal kick.
I want my doctor to run her tongue through all of my ear piercings, which are like a maze. I hope her tongue, the one that gently tells me I am OK inside, becomes my prisoner.
Isn’t it onerous to keep showing up to watch a team that is less likely to win than you are likely to adopt a dog with three different eye colors?
Let’s open up all the chakras through moaning, which is what you do if you’re a soprano instead of meditative droning. Aristotle may have give us the Poetics, but Diogenes gave us the Onomatopoetics. That dude was always murmuring under his breath.