/lit/ - Literature

Mira Gonzalez is a poetess untempled, like a street orphan she appalls all who witness her, but the fault is not hers. She is a "sacred parasite," and as due bile and invective as an ornery orchid. These rare creatures have requirements and without deep nourishment they do not reach fruition. And anyways it can be quite tough to ever truly answer: "Is Mrs. Gonzalez really down for the count? Or is she in a creative repose, a sabbatical rather than a nadir?" But what is inarguable is the timeless bloom of her species, the wistful feminine poetess, that nature returns to this form and its holy modes for reasons the best of us can hazard. Instead of Mira languishing in the sickly and shorted belts of urban shelter investments, imagine if she could slink up the porphyry steps of NYC's municipal poetess sanctuary, kicking free her shoes into one of the vents emptying into another obscure pit beneath the two-thousand cubit poetess repose, it's very foundation transected with subterranean riparian caverns, pre-ancient to modern, and accessible through the sanctuary's ornate and steeply spiraling steps and pegs and jutting bricks and even sometimes precariously tottering planks that permitted the mindfully stepping poetesses not only a choice in hydrotherapeutic effect unique to each of the many river caverns beneath the sanctuary's streetlevel, but for each of them their own uniquely compelling journey meant to stimulate in each poetess a jolt of sacred adrenal juices, piquing androgenic energies, taking to the discomforts, the ignorance of injury, and then reaching that path's conclusion finally soak in a high-saline density spring until the cringing demonic possessions are exhaled from their high-mileage bodies, likely brapped in emotive gusts that fizzily rise into immaculate bubbles themselves ferried back into the cozy maternal geology hosting the spelunking bathing poetesses. More than errant or churlish bubbles too, anything the poetess wished to flush, the waters would take, no questions, no judgement, unwavering Gaia, bideting the behinds of her most delicate and fine creatures, sloughing by the brush and dissolutions of salt any stray biota, permitting a profound cleansing of the poetess that swaddled their souls, enkindling in the human being the surreality of cleanliness, its sacrement, its godliness. In the poetess sanctuary, long meditations on such subjects and more would be expected, just as frolicking and high jubilance. The poetesses most sacred praxis in the sanctuary would be emptying their bellowing bowels into the dedicated hollows enhorning their sputtered flatulence preambles before the wet bursty showers of gas-punched loglets and fecal spheroids plummet into their own discrete pits. All along the two-thousand cubit length would be velvet-lined bells of the horned-harvesters pulling into them the sacred sounds and smells of the poetesses guts, wafting their sacred stench onto the paying laity thirstily shuffling below.