La vajraja and the love of the vajraja vajra rajas of love above

La LaChama has fled the underground jail pit in tears and retreated to her cloister after the confrontation with her split-yolk Reptilly. Still able to breath though not without effort deep in the mantle of the planet Peg has opened the jail door and helped her godchild Reptily out into the open cavern to rest on a bed of fresh hemp branches. They are able to see in complete darkness and speak with their minds only. 

When i was cry dancing and slamming my body into the iron restraints of your treacherous jail was that a cynical charade meant only to hurt the two of you as deeply as possible?

Silly. Only you know the answer to that question. It did occur to me though that you wanted us to feel as jarred and frightened as you were feeling. 

But what i wanted is for you to understand. Remember that i am essentially naive and believe that understanding leads to acceptance even if it must be beaten into me.

Reptily-ily you express a sentiment shared and passed down as a genetic disorder by your own generations. You've never experienced corporal punishment as wrong, even while it is going on? 

I've never experienced corporal punishment as wrong, even while it's going on, just as i would never let the meaning lead the rhyme nor push the meter beyond the time nor drop a message in the wine. 

I know that you know that i know you are dissociating. 

But why do i do that?

La LaChama, for example. Why is she no longer stringing marigolds and gifting them to pilgrims' necks?

You know why. She was more like gifting herself marigolds and stringing their necks. 

What did she believe about the pilgrims. 

That they must be saved for Mthyuh even at the end of a whip or from within a bruising squeeze. 

I saw her once leading a group through the moons festival ground. She was so much taller than any of them, even with the way she stooped. She clutched a matted yak shawl around her shoulders and operated a whistling bamboo rod in the other fist. She herded them like meat goats inflicting visible defense wounds on their arms and fingers. 

Right, she is safer to society after the abduction by prayer. Now she can focus on the more esoteric aspects of lavajraja. 

The love of lavajraja. 

La lavajraja that is love and is of love a lavajraja loving the love of the vajra from love and from the love of the vajarja vajra rajas of the rajas of love above... 

Amen.

it's all about choices

I got an out call from a Jan who was on a house sitting hustle at a really nice Highchank palacio almost entirely obscured by the 3-hooptie garage door. In fact she had to crank it open just so i could get in, which put me a little sour since i had to walk there from the coils, which were very loose that day. 

She sits me in a parlor like where you'd blow the butler and says she was a little concerned because i looked like a thug in my picture. I look at her a little harsh at the same time she's saying not in person though, not at all. 

I was all ok, got a bathroom? I think the Jan felt obligated to wait for me in the salon de fellatio to demonstrate her mindful wakefulness towards diversity and inclusion. Or she was delirious on shiv or fasting. She let me wander from room to room demonstrating my low urgency towards getting to know her better. I did feel urgent, but it was more about the Jan's purse, which was gaping open on a plinth. 

Then there were five shiny coins in my pocket as i told her i could hear the horn calling all the way from Chukkachank, that i'd learned to distinguish it from the cry of a bird, so i'd better get going now. 

Bitch did not miss a beat. Oh, that's a shame, hope i didn't offend you, good to meet you tho, got everything? 

MPS got me? Not even a butch K's dick from the mouth of the coils. I say what, it's an emergency? They're like naw, we like coming up in this neighborhood. 

So you just ignoring the calls from fucked-up barrios? 

Naw, they got they own justice. 

Say i know a Jan who's DTF. What say you check her out to see she ok and let me catch my spring. 

The one MPS goes that's not us, craning out her neck. We take you instead and abuse you in our jail. 

Hahahahaha! I was cracking up and slapping my thigh until they jabbed me with a pharmsupply corrective and did exactly what they said they would. 

They have special restraints like the ones for Ks but tiny for hybrids. I was awake and screaming with my mind only. I was mostly angry not in pain. They figured out the location of my flap vents and dorsal expressors and drained as much funk as they could. 

I get back to the hangar acting normal. I curl up behind a bone mound breathing deeply. I can't blame anyone. My ancestry is recklessness, but they say it's all about choices. 

by Reptily-ily

Phyllis (trans.)

the hole i have to eat through

ya they say never hand over a knife to the patient

do they say that and no i don't believe that happened

it happened and it's my fault because i thought we were both lucid

it's a personal place a central place

i know this there is symbolic content i feel all that i knew as soon as

as soon as

as soon as i saw you slash so deeply and so far i realized

you realized i slashed

i realized that it would be a symbolic moment and an existential question

not whether or not i'd survive but

right not that but whether or not you could deal with having destroyed

that specialized area

that no one would ever again see the tissue that had connected you to your mother

but now you act like

i'm not acting i'm telling you if i did it you did it it doesn't matter it's still there inside

because it turned out ok right how you mean because it looks like a real navel

no because you are no longer exposed to that reminder of dependency

you could do the same to my mouth so no one could see the hole i have to eat through

Dr. Donna Thong

Mike

Post-op interview [frag.]

Pecking worm cloud

click image

click image to view struggling hostage

click to follow grupe

Austerity clinic

What you looking at, Missy Silly? They ain't no treats for you t-tay. Why so reproachful, lovey? The stink eye. Who saved you by tossing bait in the yard, even used my best boy, the house guard, to lure you in with sexy jumping.

In the hot pockets a local wears a percent of her skeleton on the outside, and visitors have to come and go quickly. To get you back safely I'd, oh I don't know, helicopter in and hang a ladder action.

[...] how in every town and age, there's a man wanders up and starts to build a cathedral outta tracter tires 'n "adobie." Who knew they were all the same guy. He's not a troublemaker; he's like a beggar; it's a mystery his place of showers.

Suddenly he's there in your rooms, a blinding light. There must be electricity in his touching fangers, or a deep smell of handiwork.

Bitch, you are our child.

Sylvia to Peg at age 49, already an unrepentant monster, strapped and clamped to a vinyl-upholstered panel van, as Tom stands by sobbing. 

siberian rent discount

The worshipers have cleared out my home, split up the bitches. One of them, I hear, is fed on canned corned-beef hash and Hawaiian bread. If it's La-La, she could get bloat.

The pool torches, the Yukio Mishima collection, all gone. My pants suits, stethoscopes. Do you know why I'm not bothered by your pictographs in flames?

As long as they burn here, for me, they are good to no one else. Your hand on my breast was spit-blown with oxblood all around like a dissolving turkey star.

No rent to pay, no dishes to cull. I am on cement detail for a long career. The pulsing glow of my ankle bracelet is your good eye, the one that only looks this way.

I take my moles wherever I go. They were needled into me by heaven. All my attempts to extend into space from my torso, however far, have sprung me back to a single cell.

Collar of Skulls

When I close my eyes I can see pricks of light in the pattern of the tiny bud cluster on your ficus. They dim in and out and the tip wags like the shamrock marquee on an old border casino. Death gives you a mask of hurt knowing and the joy of helplessness. I see your face in the thick leaves I sink among to steal a smoke. I feel the backs of your knees and neck and bump the hip string of a loin cloth on my heroic groin carrying you inert out of Aztec Town. Ever since you planted a collar of skulls on my breast, ever since crimson footprints first crossed the wake of the blessed, I been able to get up on my knees, and the rest just pulled itself together. I never knew all the carnage was what my own eyes bled while stomping past the innocent. Monster, our arms rattle round the plexus, so many palms turned up with final gifts, a mill, beacon eating wind. Only your power can make me stop destiny and give in.

Kev's Biggest Wanter

Dogreeve

Chemical Prayer

I can still think even though most of my muscles are under remote control. This reminds me of an office job I had while I could still cover my spines. Repetetive movement. I could staple six reports at a time. My finger muscles got strong playing canasta with Sylvia and Tom. If they could see me now. Soaring over a canyon. Bringing home lost ducks. Men. To my nest. To PharmSupply.

It started as an offering, because I believed in my culture's nirvanic system. Here, look what I've found. I am a cat with a bird, but no. A bird with a cat. Then the Mthyuh Preservation Society ruled to let the corporations infiltrate the Shiv, and then... It doesn't matter if you are a lesbian when... they are force working and resting you, cramping your style.

My African-American news anchor husband and mulatto kids: waiting in some hiya-percha. I am employed, enslaved, an appliance plugged in. Retrieving robot falcon. I try to be gentle, but they have fitted me with metal. Plucking an individual from a park or deserted place, there is almost no sound. One must clap one's beak around those who insist on retreating indoors.

All I want is to get my puppies to safety. You implanted your motivator chip right near that instinct. Sometimes they dangle from my toenails and mouth both as I sightsee my worn track. One day I'll find my kids and have an operation. I'll go back to them and explain how tied up I've been. You told me I could retire in a temple and invite all my friends.

Peg

Time on a Stump

The meatgrinder of life had Kev speaking in star patterns and twisting himself up into every single asshole and grilled. Always hot yet or because hurting, Kev's tears were rain for doves. Everywhere Kev turned, there were democratic users of love.

Kidnapped by a buyer/hoarder trick, he stared for a while at the top of a shopping-bag chank: a slice-o-wood clock with its plasticine bark rested on a cardboard ox. Time moved batteried and therefore temporarily unfettered there, on its stump. Bhut whut was to become of us coincidentally, in our later years, sufferers of severe drying?

Kev's Biggest Wanter

After No-Shiv

Peg just home from Pharmsupply Focus Group would squat and pee if you even touched her collar. We finally got it and threw it out. She seemed liberated. Our reign would be one of logic. At first a butter-soft Gucci leash gently looped behind the neck did the trick in that she limpingly obeyed as in mock Stations of the Cross. It was Pathetic.

Now all Syl needs is to loll the thing against her thigh and Peggy knows what it means. To bed. To your den. In a cave.

She'll be back to fully verbal soon, and on to childbearing. We feel she wants to whisk the ones she's got off to a cliff nest and wish them well. She must be stopped.

Weirdo Healer Prees

In a rat hole for aliens, you see a zeal for life:

lust for children and in cooking.
Tenants, slaves pushed their grime

against caves of linoleum and painted wood
and pipe and pane and wrought iron caging;

they come up to him in church, tap at the rai
-ments, a downtown suit-parlor knock off,

chequered from a couple decades down;
sandy hairs moderate his rostrum.

A sinner with thick glasses, loose pantz,
sprinkle on yor daughter, clean her path,

watch yor blighted son who no one look at.
Weirdo healer prees, closer than a fren.

Torches Costs Money

One day Chama was being lynched by a mob of about 300 in the low chanks, and several of her closest associates gathered to perform an intervention on her because of their concern:

"Chama, we know youse a goddess, but can't you put this aside?

"Other people have rights too.

"Yes Chama, I mean look around you; your best thinking got you here.

"Chama, don't you think it's time for a little self reflection?

"Yes, Chama. You can go over how you could make this a better place for you to be.

"You have that power Chama.

Chama say:

No my power is shapeshifting and speaking back across centuries to my younger self. I can hide my back, scalp and neck spurs with alien technology. I can fly in a F-suit or grow my wing. I can lift shiny coins through telekinesis and slight of hand from air pockets in the steady stream of important and influential flakes who cross my sound threshold.

Chama continue:

I cannot make this a better place for me to be right now.

Interventionists:

"This is what concerns us. You've lost the ability to master your own destiny, and on the frontier, that means mental illness.

Chama respond:

Dats booshia.

Chama continue:

Caw deeze mthyuhphkas off.

Interventionists:

"We calling you off, baybidumplins. You hereby denied the right to perpetrate on any of those damaged and frightened neighbors and chankspeople you see before you and shall apoligize for working them up into that level of a froth by your tone.

Interventionists continue:

"And torches costs money.

Chama say:

This is me. This is what you get with me. You brought me into the system. You were following the Law then. This is who I am. I come with crowds. This is what you get with me when you let them in. You found me banging on the door begging for bureaucracy. I thought it was a meritocracy, but chall was I dim. Turns out I am a delivery boy: I brought the Him.

Chamatilly continue:

BTW, can I get a square? Can I get paid?

Interventionists:

[No answer. No answer.]

I'd Like to Hold You Once

Apparently, women really
want to have sex.

But you and I, no
one will suspect.

Let them strut their
glossy trappings

While we steal a
caress and longing.

Brash fruits drop, ho-
llow in our ear;

We mutually suckle
underground.

Would that my
branches could

Find you in air, in-
hibit yor career.


I'm y' baseline, baby!
Kev

Minx, Manx, Monx

Hi Everyone:

Today I hosed off the front porch in some very skimpy trunks and thongs, nada mas. This was to send a signal to all the wives driving by in SUV's with big sunglasses, sellulars and Slurpees that indeed, there is a fit and permanently sangle hottie in the hood. I would love to tangle with one of those minxes. It would be fun to catfight with their ladies as well. What else will we decadent cement executives do in a worl wair we can't get serious about grafting? I'll read it to you square: give me my rights back now or your husband is mine.

Peg, and I'm Serious

Where It Left

Your love broke my spirit
love broke my spirit
when my spirit loved you
and it went away
your love broke my spirit
when it went away.

I saw it leave you, dearest
as a spirit leaves you,
if you had died that day,
but your body stayed;
it was love that left me
to shake and pray.

You've got ugly words as
placeholders
when we played all day,
loved that way; you've got
cursing, hurting when
it was bright and gay.

Your love broke my spirit
love broke my spirit
where my spirit loved you
and it lifted away
your love broke my spirit
where it left that day.

where it left #3 [mp3]

Limping K's Rock a Death Zoo

Pete Dikker, Chankside

Discovered late last night in Chang K. Chang, hundreds of K's in various states of consciousness literally drag claw in circles round a towering black shivbox. None of these med captives can fly, completely gimp even with their equipment set to Strong. I spoke with a scrawny, filthy boy as he attempted to tunnel out from under the fence with a guano sack through which only the faintest throbbing purple glow could be detected.

PETE DIKKER: Boy what's the point gathering their slry when they are so sick.
RUSTIC BOY: Not... sick... old... Pegyuh want the 12-year or nothin. All else... is rotgut.
PETE DIKKER: And when they expire for good. What then, sherlock?
RUSTIC BOY: They flesh is a mummify, and work better with remote.
PETE DIKKER: As tar-like raindrops crackle and splatter all around us and your tunnel begins to cave, what existential feelings are welling up in you now?
RUSTIC BOY: K's rock my emotion sickness... I live to feed the milk goddess so you can suck laif to yor generations... and find answers for mizzry'n strahf.
PETE DIKKER: If you could ask the camera any question about our world, now is the time.
RUSTIC BOY: First... does it merely hide chaos behind a facade of complexity? ...And if there is nothing around it... why isn't everything right next to it?

Apologia for a superstitious lifestyle, or true quest for the Pegyuh's favorite bar mixer? Private guano plant for a queen, or sadistic joke on a species for whom religion comes from a gene? While getting shot with flaming arrows by flakes and just before suffocating in liquid coal, RUSTIC BOY looked me in the eye and screamed. "Dey keep fline even wen dey ded! Soon deyl awbee macheenz! Wair can we go wen th'Mthyuh doned get fed? We Dai, We Daaaa...iii!"