bloodless

bloodless
never painless
stimulated nerves

i played with dollface on the porch yesterday, i made her more vivid than she was - i put a ribbon in her hair and brought her out in shades of gray, it was good practice for a career in sexual frustration

oh, i have no religion and my god is the void, but i practice -x but what i heard of god from someone i was willing and able to listen to, so long ago, before i lost my soul, was that she is black - and she's really the head of the quik-e-mart x- daphney's riding an anonymous cock, it never gets old - it's immortal fragments, like dustmites blinding the scorcerer's apprentice -x and even the apprentice exchanged a few furtive glances, and some bodily fluids, with the magician's doll

five days ago, i gingerly removed my gas mask and my canisters -o the poison is no longer neutralizing fairy dust wafting out from quantum vents o- and my possessions are going missing, one by one, sometimes two by four -o the fairy dust is fair to middling, it's something, anyway o- and those canisters aren't disappearing from the market anytime soon

after playing with dollface i phase into metaphor, the fairy dust won't cancel that, won't encourage it either - consistency is in canisters, there's a pork flavored canister, a mango flavored canister - there's directions on the back of the can, but they're in lebanese - there's a good view from the edge of the suspension bridge, i can look down and see the river running with faces - the cokehead killer is in eighties jail having an electrode wake, americans do water torture better than the chinese, and i'm still connecting contours to bodies to souls, but it's all dollface, and genetic exchange is a card game, and the pot rattles with loose change thrown in by tightwads

dollface threw my words back at me, i love her when she does that, it's cute and curt and crimson, a scalpel wet with saliva, it's that shade of deep red that makes me want to cut myself, it's utilitarian, pro/con, and always nullspace, when dollface throws my words back at me, when my works are in retirement:

"sterile neurotic with beady-eyed delirium and an electrode-wrecked brain, clothes wet with night sweats, whacking off to daphney, not worthy for eternity or at least a less grandiose stretch of time, like a non-respectable shrug-life -- and so, so many toxins to blame it on, so much bile produced by those poor organs fulfilling their function, and such, such saintly parents, such that there's no adjective that won't sound sarcastic, and what's more, nothing to flesh out, except the cryptic garb of a half-naked figurine

'ney -*- she inspired one more session - then several more hallucinations - here's hoping, opening: