A Message From the King

"Owch."

"Them my ears, fucker. Them my ears get the fuck off, fucker!"
Thankyou for biting my ears.
I don't think you know that you have. I don't know. Maybe. Dunno what you know. And I don't know if that chomp will do any good, anywho. See him starin' off through the third wall?
But maybe.
Sothanks.
Ya tricky little fucker.

Look how seriously the King of the Cosmos is taking you.

But still I do not have answers--to give, that is. Transmission is the tricky business. Wanting to transmit is the jam up.
What does it mean to want to want to do something? The way it sounds, I feel like the first want should slide into the absence left by the first. But it doesn't. They are not they same. Why aren't they the same? What's the difference between those weird little buggers?

You think it is when you do not write that it is called reality, she whispers, barks, or bites. But it is only that another is writing about you then.

But this was written four or so months ago. The context has since changed. Entirely, I am tempted to say. But is it really so different? But must it be, for it to be of value?

I love patterns not because they are organized or precise, but because they most often lead to shaking. And that is a term I am going to abuse for awhile. Use? Steal. Give a home.

You do not have to learn a lesson to bear the mark of your errors.

Dameda, hanyou. That's not how that works.

I am so tempted to say that the mark of your errors is...is beauty. But we will let Isaac alone a little longer.

Underneath

She moves like a snake in her sleep

Mouthing

Rooting for the taste of her tail

For the end of her

No, it's not the end of her

Strange thing

Stretched skin

Is this eating? Or is her belly filled

with stones and water?

Her tongue is out

Flicking

Faltering

Trying to recall a tastered that's

been eclipsed by a smellwheat

The pen fell half chewed from her lips
Ink trailed between her breasts.

Get wet. Get wet with us and tell us what it's like. We want to hear it, but not from our own mouth. We want to spit and curse and smile through red banded lips and black eyes. Tell us the story of us and ourselves. Tell us where the edge was, for we could not see; tell us there is more to be had; the nights are not yet over. Then tell us no more lest our drunken thoughts turn sober. It will not be empathy; not sympathy; not anything that's you or me; but together, let us be The Beaten. Lie, act, paint if you must, if you desire--but let me come in the blacks and purples of this fresh made flesh.

Hey there, crinklefox.
Save a bottle for me.