"temporary"

 

Here is another one by me for kitten, she's writing one right now. 

 

 

 

SEEDED

 

it's divine jesus planned it jesus planted it the seedy limerance first seven years 
growing wild like a dandelion in dirt lot texas taking off all my clothes at five
immersing myself in the mud because the worms make more sense than most people
shining it up for sunday morning at the church with the white steeple then raging
at daughters who look slutty in mommy's lipstick and boys who won't play ball
pbs propaganda every color has a place at the table and the rainbow is a promise
from jesus that we will never have to repeat this tacky loop

if only we believe and receive the only cup that matters
but the jack daniels vomit splatters my ten perfect toes
and in the throes of oh hell yes hallelujah saturday night
the light switches on at last and in my broken stained glass window heart i know
thirteen years and an ocean between us and baby we are the same
we came down here to tear shit up to find the magic in the mundane
to dance this waltz while the machines do their dreary work
and bones fall as they do across a thousand or so miles of asphalt
we are goddamn lucky and blameless
surrounded by the karmically filthy and delusional dead
we laugh we fuck we roll the dice 

NATURAL INGREDIENTS

it's texas america y'all all yeehaw monster truck rally thank you for your service
jesus loves you so motherfucking hard as the fries go limp at hooter's
and the puppets bring back the beatles at chuck e. cheese's
and everything repeats so artless so soulless from five below to cracker barrel
such an inglorious empire with me sprawled out in the middle of it strung out
on spray cheese and bottom shelf vodka looking in the mirror affirming the best has passed
this is the best a bitch can hope for sonic on a saturday night sunday in bed with another
celebrity trash magazine yacht tits and island orgies versace vagina christian dior death

and then in pisces season when the moon was waxing in aries or was it scorpio
a pure voice comes through so brilliant angelic making me laugh so hard i piss
bringing back the goddamn rainbow and stars i stopped wishing on in 1993
making me love so hard and deep i cum like new year's eve fireworks over seaworld
and in the words of george michael it's natural
so let's endeavor forever
feasting on fuck
because old perverts like it special
spamming the algorithm with words forged in flame
creating a better archive
for a future perfect world
where there are more flowers and lemon trees than dollar stores
and cumming continuous for three minutes
is as natural as breathing
god yes baby yes
let's plaster the planet with this doctrine
this mars in capricorn venus in pisces noise
more obscenely beautiful than any baptist hymn
 

"here is fuck forever, kitten"

 

 Another one for me boiler.

 

"split love open" like the stars tell us

This is for the fiancee, obviously, & it's very pure & normal because I'm a good boy. Pieces like this one & her poem directly below will appear in a book about fucking called STUNT COCK, which is apparently the name of this fucking book. Two fucking weeks, it's a long time. 

 

 

  

Almost April

no voice comes over the radio no light breaks through
noise dense hellscape populated with dead eyed troglodytes
ravens decaying in walmart parking lots
barbed wire glistening with viscera
the lovers in reverse because there never was an eden
the wheel of fortune in reverse because nothing is moving

then in the year of the galloping fire horse
with saturn in aries pluto in aquarius
a poem written in 1991 suddenly comes true

one true king and no pretender
comes through the waves
comes home to oarfish littered shore
for this pisces release

yes and yes and yes a thousand
everything is swelling and aching and melting and drowning
fuck the world and everyone in it
except us except this
two pluto mad gold greedy pirates
saturn tested and approved

SQUIRTING AMERICAN STYLE

Sally enjoyed nothing more than Nutella from the jar for breakfast, washed down with Jack Daniels from the bottle. Sally lived in San Antonio, Texas where the tacos are sloppy and the men are sloppier. The dogs bark ceaselessly. Motherfuckers drive like bats out of hell with one hand on the wheel and the other on the cock and/or cunt. 

Cougar, Sally's husband of sixteen years, worked for some kind of plumbing company. He put in tedious hours filing paperwork and cleaning the lone shit splattered toilet in the office. When Cougar came home from work all he wanted to do was drink cans of Busch and watch wrestling on the Costco television that dominated the den of the double wide trailer. 

"Cougar...we haven't fucked in a million years," Sally said.
"That's an exaggeration. You gave me a blow job two months ago," Cougar said.
"I want a divorce."
"Nope."

There he was again, popping up in the Instagram DMs. The bloke from Manchester wanted to know what Sally thought about Trump sending troops to the moon.

"It's always something political with you," Sally typed into the chat.
"I'm making polite conversation. I don't want you to think I'm horny for you. I know you're married," Percy typed.
"I'm getting a divorce."
"Why?"
"Sex. Not enough sex."
"I see. I quite enjoy sex. I do find you sexually appealing. I look at your pictures and watch your reels. I imagine things."
"What kind of things do you imagine?"
"First. Before we go any further. Do you have a vibrator?"
"I have five."
"Perfect. Grab your favorite."
"Got it."
"Are you naked in bed?"
"Yes."
"Send pics. Here's my cock."
"Oh. My. God. Do you have a license to carry that thing?"
"Larger than what you're accustomed to, I imagine? American men are notorious for having micro dicks."
"Yeah. My husband's dick is about six inches. Are you twelve?"
"Not quite. Eleven. But long enough and plenty thick, right?"
"Yeah. I'm so scared I'm tingling. My pussy hasn't been this wet since 2011."
"I won't ask what happened in 2011."

The thing was done and Sally was shivering in bed, worried she had wet the bed. A native Texan, Sally had never squirted. But now she had squirted during an Instagram chat and she knew life would never be the same. What would Jesus think? 
 

karma sextile orgasm death

Here's a poem for kitten, my fiancee Misti, a chula from Texas coming soon to marry me & shit, & it's about the significance of Saturn in Aries sextile Pluto in Aquarius, given that Saturn is in Aries in our composite & we are both Saturnians & she's an Aquarius & I'm an Aries, & other things.

 

 

 

Once A Girl Dances To Van Halen

 

 

 

 

Misti was twelve years old and dancing in her magical bedroom in Monahans, Texas. The bedroom was magical because her Virgo stepdad had created it from the garage. There was cream colored carpet on the floor and a full size bed with a wicker headboard. There was a vanity where Misti could sit and brush her long black hair and apply gloss to her lips. But the most magical thing of all was the mirrored closet. Misti's favorite thing to do was to put on her striped one piece bathing suit and pop in a cassette and dance in front of the mirror until she was dripping sweat. 

So it was summertime in Monahans, Texas and Misti was dripping sweat in her bathing suit, dancing in front of the mirror to "Panama" by Van Halen, her favorite band. Misti loved to watch David Lee Roth strut around on MTV. She fantasized about David Lee Roth kidnapping her from school (Sudderth Elementary) and fucking her like a hurricane on his tour bus. Misti had heard that it hurt like a motherfucker having your cherry popped but she anticipated the pain.

Suddenly, magically David Lee Roth appeared in his red spandex unitard that showed off his profusion of golden chest hair and bulging cock. When Misti saw David Lee Roth in the mirror she stopped dancing. He approached Misti, picked her up and threw her on the bed. Misti gasped. Was her dream coming true?

"Once a girl dances to Van Halen she's ready for the rock hard cock," David Lee Roth intoned.
"But David Lee Roth...I'm a...a virgin! And I still believe in Jesus!" Misti cried out.
"That's okay, baby. I got a three inch cock so you won't feel a thing. And Jesus is a fairy tale. I'm Jewish." 

ARTIST STATEMENT

 

My work explores the often cryptic yet revelatory relationship between dick and pussy, or the gross material, the primal urge, and the numinous divine, the infinite womb. With influences as diverse as Laura Ingalls-Wilder and Daniel Johnston, a schism is created that mocks and defies didactic discourse.

Ever since I was an embryo broiling in the hellfire snakepit that is 20th century Texas. I have been enthralled by the absurdity of language. Why do we speak at all? Why do we disobey Bukowski and try like maniacal motherfucker? What begins as bewilderment soon degenerates into sugar crazed futility, leaving the viewer/listener/taster/feeler with a vague sense of nausea and an exasperated WHAT THE FUCK???

The truth is my work is not a package of Twinkies to be quickly and mindlessly consumed en route to a Maroon 5 or BLINK-182 concert. My work is not a can of Coors. My work is not a can of Budweiseer. My work is not a Hello Kitty butt plug. My work is not any kind of sandwich.

Rather, my work is a Chef Boyardee pizza. Bitch, you gotta work that dough. You must take the time and the effort to consume my art. No, baby, my art has no nutritional value. If you add your own gluten free vegan toppings to my art you will make it suck. Let my art be exactly what it is, a hot and tasty white trash snack that will only satisfy those who are not Italian.

2018 San Antonio, Texas             Misti Rainwater

POLISHED PSYCHOPATH

 

Oh DADDY to be a polished psychopath with a relentless porn star lipstick smile! 
I would never shed a motherfucking tear, not even when chained to a tractor
and taken to Cracker Barrel on the same Easter that Jesus The Fucking Christ returns in Phyllis Diller drag and serenades me with "All The Young Dudes" or anything by Ginger Todger.

 

Daddy I would not do I would not do that thing I do where I delete photos of my vagina and send you tear soaked audio files once again apologizing for my retardation and poor social skills. I may be a bit of a Jew but fuck Israel and Dr. Pepper. Also. FUCK IPHONE. In the words of Fatty Arbuckle, "Always Coca-Cola!"

 

Daddy. Superbowl Volcano? I call clickbait. But I don't hate I masturbate through my extra thick Faded Glory mom jeans and bet on the duck that is bringing me you. I do. I do. 

JIZZ MASTER

 

Hi. My name is Misti. You can call me bitch. You can call me whore. You can call me skank. You can call me cookie. I really don't care what you call me because I am thirteen and retarded and so in love with Daddy (Jizz Master) (David C. McLean) that I am pissing gay rainbows from Malibu to Miami. 

In all seriousness, I bled my eyeballs out for approximately a century trying to create the perfect natal chart for the perfect man (for me) at astro.com. My natal chart is extremely complicated, cocksuckers! I've got my sun in the ANARETIC DEGREE of AQUARIUS for a goddamn shit ass start! I've got Virgo rising conjunct my VIRGO MOON. Fuck you with your big mouth Sagittarius moon. Fuck you with your Oh Golly Gee Wheeee Life is a CARNIVAL Libra moon. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you to FILTH. I have a FIRST HOUSE Virgo moon and it has often sucked being me, an Aquarian fucktard adrift in Dixie Land, surrounded by Dr. Pepper swigging Fritos chomping "Jerry Springer" watching cowboy church attending troglodytes who think Jesus is coming back on Easter Sunday 2026.

Jesus may or may not return this Easter but IT IS WELL WITH MY SOUL (fucking voyeurs) because I am filthy crazy to the marrow IN LOVE with my Tardo Twin, David C. McLean. Yes, bitch, we do in FACT have Mercury conjunct Mercury (to the degree, which is FOURTEEN) in Pisces. His Gemini moon is at six degrees and SO IS MY MOON IN VIRGO. Squares are only bad if you're a pussy. I'm not a pussy and neither is my man my sword wielding angel my baby my darling my daddy my future forever husband, David C. McLean. 

Why do I love my man so much? None of your goddamn business but since you're here. He does not attend poetry readings. He doesn't stand at the microphone and say (under the influence of an award winning IPA), "So I was really going through something...heh heh heh...when I wrote this poem. It was published in Ploughshares and has been nominated for various awards."

Also. He's pretty goddamn intelligent for a retard. He uses words like "exigencies" and "perdure" !!! which is crack for my sapiosexual soul!!! (Don't edit this, Daddy. I know what I'm doing.) (I love you but I do not have love in my whore heart for the Oxford comma.)

So I bled my eyeballs out for 100 years or so, looking for that ever elusive perfect natal combo. Found it. At last at last. Sun in Aries. Oooo fuck me HARDER. Mars in Aquarius conjunct my sun. PORK SWORD ALERT. Pluto in Virgo RIGHT THE FUCK on my moon in Virgo. Jealous yet? You damn sure SHOULD BE.

Check it out. Yo. Sun in Aries. Capricorn rising. Oh my GOD fuck me harder. Please. Moon in Gemini. He keeps talking as I'm falling asleep. David C. McLean (DADDY) is the only man on this planet or any other who has EVER made me CUM with his VOICE. He's my Richard Burton. Welsh god. WELSH GOD. Forget what you heard. This what you hearin'!!! And last night? When the moon was wherever it was? Sun in Aries? Saturn in Aries? Pluto in Aquarius? MY MAN MADE ME SQUIRT ON BLOODY WHATSAPP with his VOICE. Goddamn right. Oh, you think I'm joking?? Do you want pictures? You won't be receiving those. Never squirted in my life until last night and it's all due to Saturn in Aries sextiling Pluto in Aquarius urging me nay COMMANDING ME to finally unfriendzone my favorite man of all time. His name is David C. McLean. I can call him Daddy. He IS Daddy. He's mine. ALL MINE. So KISS both of our asses. BYE. 

p.s. David C. McLean has the most gorgeous gargantuan cock I have ever seen.  

 #JIZZ #LOVE #SATURN #BESOS #KISSES #DADDY #BABYGIRL #JUICE #SPUNK #ORGASMS #SQUIRTING #ARIES #AQUARIUS #BDE #COCK #TESTOSTERONE 

Chakra Orgasm & a review by Misti Mallory Rainwater

Here's a short piece by Misti Mallory Rainwater, alpha bitch & author of several books forthcoming from Posthuman Poetry. 

Chakra Orgasm + Book By My Brilliant Fiance

5:22 a.m. 23 March 026 Monday

The phone sex (I know I'm 53! FUCK OFF!) with David is the best I have ever experienced. He's the only man  who has ever made me cum with his voice. Today I experienced an incredible CHAKRA ORGASM without vibrator or fingers. I felt the energy flow from my throat to my cunt & ass. I AM ALIVE & deeply in love. Gracias, multiverse.

I scribbled down my favorite quotes and poem from David C. McLean's (DADDY) Kali Breathes This Fire.

You should purchase this book if you haven't already. As I devoured the words I thought, "Fuck me. I'm from Texas.
And I'm going to marry this brilliant Welsh motherfucker."

"Lalita does not like to watch reruns."

"Kali is the plane of immanence in the ontological sense of that term, the unpresentable substructure of space, just as She is the substructure of time as the eternal return. She is the Dark Mother, dark matter, She sustains everything, She contains everything - & this text itself is written by a tiny worthless spark of Her as it struggles to return home and burn there within Her, where I always already am."

"There is no quiescent end state. What Mother Kali tells us is something like 'You are meat and beast forever, so deal with the blood & the red sexual flesh'."

"So Kali is all that is real. In The Nirvana Tantra we are told that gods like Brahma, Vishnu, & Shiva rise up in Her like bubbles in the sea, only to ultimately disappear: only She perdures."

"Carnists don't get to ascend. It is normal to be vegetarian or vegan in Shaktism though, & substitutes are common."

it is made of words

it is made of words, a sexual context, & depressive is nipple this insidious position, when the horsemen ride some savage sunrise, every plague a mania, & cum us sunset love enough to win them their pigeon invisible

 it is made of words & embers, & yet what matters is the fire, is that Kali screams inside the meat, like seagulls singing intensity & sexual: this is all that means anything, the savage blood & the scream it sings

(Misti Rainwater, author of Fuckerbutt Happy Time)

Misti Rainwater-Lites, ZERO BUENO

Here's news of an exciting new book. I am currently working with Misti Rainwater to aid in the delivery of her magnum opus, ZERO BUENO, a non-linear fever dream filled with explicitly karmic psychopageantry. 

"If Conway Twitty and Nancy Spungen had a baby it would write this book." (Is she hinting here at her secret ancestry.) 

This will be "like Anne Sexton, but better."

I have known Misti since MySpace, which was probably decades back, but have not published her yet because this present time, right now, is a very propitious time indeed. This is because Big Daddy Saturn, obviously the most beneficent planet & my chart ruler, is manifesting stuff, & karma is no issue to me. There are fucking huge energies available for several months, & goddess has therefore instructed me to bulk up a bit, but also to offer to do this book. There are huge alleged TWIN FLAME energies available for this book, which Misti feels may be her bestest book, & I am well chuffed to do it.

Misti & I are getting married, because Big King Daddy & the yellow enemy are conjunct in Aries, formerly known as The Young Stallion, and Pluto is in her Aquarius. 

A statement from Misti: 

"I'm flying across the pond to finally be properly fucked." 

Here is Misti's Chupacabra Disco.  

 

 

"seeds and feathers" by Tanya Rakh

Below these words is a piece by Tanya Rakh, that she wrote on account of a dream. She asked that I post it here. There are several books by Tanya among the links towards the right of the page.

seeds and feathers

to Peter Marra
New York City
Dimension 4

Dear Peter,

I had a dream only you could write. I was trying to rest, and I don’t like dreaming. Too much sweat and trauma.

A theatre, the balcony of a sold-out show. My husband holds me close. I am warm.

The music ends. In the row behind us, an old man stands and gazes through the crowd, his face a shade of wonder. He announces how good it is to feel such warmth and energy, to see so many couples holding each other close.

His family stands beside him, silent. They are ghosts.

He needs to tell us something important. A treasure box of seeds, a vase of incense. He and his wife used to light one incense every night, a token of their love. I don’t remember what he said about the seeds. Small, round grains from a distant land.

I know where to find them. On my knees in a bright green meadow, I gather handfuls of seeds in my palms, scoop them into a small, lacquered box. It’s important that I fit them all. The seeds are overflowing, but I smooth them down and the box holds everything inside.

A dozen incense sticks lie scattered across the grass. Most are the color of dried soil, a few striped like feathers. Ashes of feathers. I gather them into a vase. This is important.

Back home, I sit in the middle of a large, white carpet. My husband is cooking lemon chicken. I want to stop eating animals because I love them, but I haven’t stopped. The flesh is delicious, and my hunger is strong.

The old man used to cook lemon chicken for his family. My husband tells me the man’s recipe was different, an old technique I can’t remember. Meat and vegetables in a thick, yellow syrup. I am collecting piles of seeds from the carpet, trying to remember where I left the incense. There isn’t much time. Dinner is almost ready.

They sit around a table in a sunlit room: the old man, his wife, his daughter, a few other relatives. There is no food, only a bouquet of lavender, yellow, and pink roses, pastel shades of Easter eggs. The man tells us he is 34 but appears much older.

His wife is telling a story, eyes bright and alive. Everyone is listening except the old man. He is restless. He takes the roses from her hands and passes them around the table, one for each person, announcing his gifts. The relatives look uneasy. An uncle protests the interruption, but the old man doesn’t understand. His wife continues her story.

She leaves him that year, when the incense won’t light. He dissolves into rage. After she moves out, he comes to her new home with a gun but is dragged away by the crowd before he can shoot. His daughter watches in horror from the open front door.

I am watching a documentary about Gaza. The footage is seven hours long but I only see the first nine minutes. Dinner is almost ready, and I need to tell them about the treasure box of seeds and vase of incense, but the scene keeps changing.

The daughter loves her little brother very much. She tries to keep him safe. When I arrive, she gives me a grand tour of their house, gracious and cheerful, dressed in pastel cardigans and short blonde hair. I remember the seeds but forget to speak. The vase gathers dust on a bookshelf upstairs. She doesn’t know.

The old man’s new wife has dark hair and a sinister posture. They receive a phone call from a stranger who offers them a box of money for their box of treasure. The old man and his wife argue about the treasure; he can’t remember what it is. I tell him of course it’s the seeds, and the stranger who called is only him, just thinner, angrier. They can’t hear me. They agree to the exchange.

The daughter has embraced a spectre of faith in a blind, fervent prostration. Always hopeful, she tries to convince her family to follow her path. She wants to keep them alive. They roll their eyes and dismiss her. Her mother is not there. Her little brother is a shadow.

The table is set, the new wife in the mother’s place. The daughter’s hair is long and dark. She is quiet now. Her stepmother stands over the table, proud and sinister. She tells the daughter to be careful; she must not let the sewing needle in her sleeve pierce her skin. The daughter does not answer, retreats to her room.

Camera close-up. The girl smiles at the audience, laughs off the hidden needle. She unbuttons her blouse to show us. A belly full of jagged scar tissue, ruins of kitchen knives and lighters. Her breasts a theatre of piercings, sewing needles threaded over, under, through. Nipples nearly gone under cuts and metal bars.

“See?” She grins. “What more could one needle really do?”

A treasure box of ancient seeds. A vase of burnt feathers. I am already forgetting.