everything inconsequential

We are fucking off to Paris in one hour to see Gertrude's grave & the monument to Heloise & Abelard. She is sleeping beside me & we both stink of posh perfume.  I am bold enough to post this without baby's approval & to select a picture myself. Mars is in Aries & I'll fucking do it.

 

 

this is innocent

This is Misti's absolute favourite poem that I have written. "Oh Dada, it's your Wasteland," she claimed. The picture shows Stella Rainwater.

 "Oh my god, the keyboard is resting on your cock," exclaimed Lil Misti. "Publish that bitch, this is as good as it gets."

 

 

 

 

 

SALT IN MY STELLA

Precision does kiss does swirl does taste with bubbled gold and sun slants abundance on glassed adjacent to poppies to raspberries to stained glass cherried corazon. My rubied my sangre my bricked hell yes. Salud each shakti engine the shadowed the shining the cherished hallucinogenic catharsis swollen 1977 Brazos ghosts screaming for salt for sugar for cerveza for mercy. Mercy is not a nest. Mercy is not an attic. Mercy is not a raft. Mercy is not here surrounded by cotton and copperheads and clouds pissing precarious. Snake trust. Slithered redemption. The toy of memory. Memorized fuck hex. Here is charmed cereal cookied calm and the storm seeks straw so much lack conceptualized capital. Come my deliberate come my liberated come my carnival come my orbed chaos twin my chosen flavor. Flavored home chocolate savored now smashed bell jar crashed bone china saucer flashed the sky en route to honey. Honeyed here honeyed mine honeyed eternal. Serpentine streets cobbled medieval but also New Orleans bloated flores with Brando bellow. Donde esta mi cielo, papi? Oh cielo. Sweetest. Here. Here. Here. This. This. Us.

 

 

EDIT by David Rainwater: I am so fucking proud of Kitten because we had just been shopping & to get her hair done & had beers in Spoons & a curry then when we got home she wrote this. I do the editing & housework & she writes & shuffles the cards. Baby is best. 

BEAUTY MONSTER

Obvious mathematics obviously a mouthful and there is no mustard in remembering. Oh daddy oh dada oh darling the beauty monster comes to stay and nothing else is pizza. The proper function is tremble is crumble is squirm is melt is convulse is whimper is more more y mucho mas. This creates thrum. Thrumming to jesus thrumming to muerte thrumming to electric light orchestra. Medusa juice is chupacabra disco. Carve it in stone with candy apple red screwdriver because no one not even the rain does it better.

raping a bitch is several

 this is a plan for our Paris vacation with catacombs & graveyards & brutal boning ...

 

 

orgasms sponsored by jesus

reunited in heathrow after a thousand or so years apart no baby we aren't confessional poets we're journalists adding our matter of fact fire and sweat and blood and cum to the cosmic fuck ass archives jesus is dead but still gets all the goddamn press we are alive and howling laughing thrusting cumming in delicious oblivion no expectations no invitations to star spangled weddings marked by the tundra and the veldt if it isn't deeply felt why bother asks winnie the pooh hello kitty does not reply just decorates the lull with pop art girl power we share showers and candy and walk into the april blaze aries king of wands with his aquarius queen of swords healthy as hell spewing the lukewarm from our frothing mouths jesus is gone fishing so we have no choice but to celebrate the worms and writhe in the mud as empires crumble around us and ocelots dream of that ever elusive perfect day crystallized memorialized in pisces hell
 

STUNT COCK: cumming soon to an Amazon app near you!

 

Here's the cover to STUNT COCK, the forthcumming collection by Kitten & me. It's coming after we get back from Paris & all the catacomb sex, & that bitch will be hot & wet.  The cover shows various pieces of Misti's property. "maS mas MAS" says Kitten.

I asked Misti for a comment but all she said was "rape me harder, Dada".

PLUTO MOON, bitch. IYKYK. 

Misti's blog is here. 

 

asmodeus on the radio

jesus is scared of us jesus and all the angels are weeping as you suck on my nipples grab my hair thrust your cock into my spastic pussy and nonverbal poems are born in my demonic exaltation no vowels only consonants crowding out all doubt we were made for this dance banishing simpering ghosts sacrificing the cargo that crowds us to the bellowing sea true pirates greedy for gold our desire is the currency we have never been richer watch this trick daddy your girl can swallow fire and spit out a dozen or more pearls more lustrous than anything in paris
 

nothing touches like my bitch does

Too much caffeine &/or too little weed.  Kitten loves these today & gave Dada the pretty pictures with these last two. 

 

 

things the dead said

In response to Misti's bizarre fit of jealousy today about Anne Sexton. Yesterday it was "you marry that fucking pizza then". I love me a jealous bitch, we can both agree that we're not jealous but perfectly normal.

 

 

 

 

hard versus soft

nouns adjectives adverbs ganging up on me in a broken glass paris alley coming at me with rusty screwdrivers and mexican switchblades number two pencil shanks reminding me of my station anne sexton was a poet sylvia plath was a poet edna st. vincent millay was a poet and i am a failed porn star from texas with a too small rosebud mouth medium tits big puffy nipples frizzy hair shitty tattoos and a hankering for something wild with someone more brilliant than i could ever hope to be fuck you fucker kicking me in the cunt as you kiss me telling me things teaching me things bigger and older than the continent i came from america is for amateurs all american writers are trash except for holy anne sexton with her splintered oars a bitch gets weary rowing toward an approximation of god but this is something this is not nothing this fisher price intimacy three black pigs holding court on the windowsill the sun screaming into the sky before six you bringing me a bowl of granola with flaxseed almond milk raspberries telling me bitch i love you here's your tea here's ian drury for the playlist bitch i am going to pile drive you into the middle of next week write a book of poems about that

group text to my family

the blonde guy across the aisle swigging a budweiser is probably acceptable by most standards with his normal american job thousands in checking hundreds in savings average credit score brick house on a street with a poetic name such as sleepy daisy his wife a pinterest dream with her easter bunny cupcakes and live laugh love in a frame on a beige wall in the media room where all dallas cowboys fans are always welcome and jesus remains head motherfucker in charge while it's true we are both flying into heathrow we inhabit different galaxies i never voted for trump and i never was a genius at playing the status quo game showing up to baseball games so congenial and jcpenney's i could be a catalogue page 

by now i am quite sure the gossip is thicker than memorial day brisket and the condemnation aimed in my direction is more righteous than IT IS FINISHED on the cross that gets all the press how could you leave your son a month before high school graduation how could you leave the air-conditioned house in the gated subdivision stuffed with dishes towels furniture meat in the freezer guitar in the garage for a british guy you met on myspace in 2008 oh bless her heart there goes misti again running away from home with a million stars spinning in her eyes somehow protected by sexy crazy cool angels whose names no texan will ever be able to properly pronounce

i will send postcards from paris buzzing on stella or something similar the bees in my head dying one bitch slap at a time my heart a carousel seen in several movies because the predictable is so romantic and here more or less is my sentiment in smeared black ink: having a lovely wish you were yes of course it's love that dragged me out of bed across the atlantic to a small town in the uk no influencer would ever vlog i spend my days in bed stoned laughing thrumming with my co-conspirator in bliss we're like johnny and june without the clout and rhinestones and right now feels really fucking good but someday this will end when one of us dies because that is how it works no crocodile tears welcome you never really knew me