/lit/ - Literature

Everything is your opus when it's the best you've done so far. Keep honing your craft.

ה (Hei)

…electrons have moved around the cortex; they've goaded their master awake into his own again, and he finds himself awake, beheld through a window to a floor of maple and of hickory, sweet and virginal as Cumberland unfound…

To what tune has he woken now?
It's the leaves, once still;
now synthesizing federal their solar sugars
through their brazen collectors…
as an eddie passes its whirling tendrils though the canopy,
they teach each other the art of painting,
just one continuous stroke on the sky,
and it throws the gust into a somersault by its eager dynamic,
falling with a disruptive rustle
on the open grave below,
dead brethren chiming despite achromatic cells
an organic whisper, chiding all those
that possess locomotion not to fall prey
to the victims of regal process
and waft with their stimulant away
to an unseen clearing…
An ocular diversion heralds the way!
There surely is a panorama projecting from inside:
More and more dead loom over the surface
and disintegrate before his eyes;
the decomposition sheds glinting
the glossy jackets that excite
the movement of his limbs towards auspice,
the locus of his five senses to focus…

Book VI: Masochist's Meiosis

It's my turn to set a trap thread:

Does my own orgasm,
torpid in whacked plash so torrid,
deferential and fallopian storm encased in quicksilver inlay, that
spent libertine libido which alone sluices male and female
over and under my vitruvian center,
does it balm my palmy flagellate?
the silver burnish'd skin softens so,
the Forger of Men
has already poured his Flux...

Where was the joy in its every cell?
shen it be, isn't this?!
something soaring it feels,
a blasting cap sent forth
on a crusty Filament from the leathery Membrane;
my petty Sentiment must have finally manifested Itself:

Specialization and Functionality
in reverent twain,

Mysticism and Wantoness
to rend that twin Ego,

generate this protognosis
into an integrated ecstasy,
my gametes' Gamekeeper will survive me by Meiosis…

You see,
It's the face that windows its own lifer,
the cheeks' curvature that composes the planks of my prison's Portico
warped on their intended culture,
To the unengender'd, unblush'd soul,
Those trim patios weather the same dust as whitewashed sluts
cheeks slather'd rougest…

In baroque Limoges bluest,
Dapple my soul the same veneer as its smart Doldrums!
Court the empathy from my own nerve endings
it freckles the face and determines the shape of Man's cortical Cladding;

Its Skin stands out nicely, for his shadow is applied in tasteful slate,
We must invite some guests for a stargazing party…

Indigo lids broadcast whole new constellations;
stars up here aren't static but conglog
then hallucen 'round the humour-cosmos,
rinded by those few millimeters of skin.
Their deprivation eventually gives,
to pool cue or reality the traumatic same!

I a culture without root
am fated to a harlequin-spun Yarn,
for the slightest hope of a perpetuating Reflector
or to at least embroider the mob of sleek designer cotton…

A supple body grafts to the root of the fruit,
making my thread the weft of a quilted tapestry without frame,
Androgeny, may it tangle mistletoe
to glint the scalpels' descending draw
with emasculating lick through my soul's home
to supple my missent loins,
not let my feet pace the milky ground!

I am now a Saint in a selfie snap,
like me, like me…
Let's overexpose that turbid face
not by a loom's generosity
but nowadays a saturating slider;
may your Camera instill Fecundity serendipesque,
let’s de-definate the true-how Arabesques,
let’s re-saturate the cut-out Odalisques,
let’s initiate those tag-now Burlesques…

All I this tapestry can do is tarp the arches of His various insitutions…
My wilted patterns bleed into my vacuousness
or unravel from dancing to the rhythm…

>>6767517

Book VI: Masochist's Meiosis

(2)

Color is only eggshell deep, amplitude deep
its inverse veins chiaroscuro in host's li;
Color sees its substance's surface scourges
that cherished Man I cradle in my collarbone before I grow older…
Don't bother me, I will gain mass when I feel His pleasure
I prefer to be sallow and andro
for at least this one moment…

… "I masticated the spare shock of satin from the unraveling edge of my choker ribbon, once brilliant arc of iridescence under any ambiance, spit saturated and naughty mashed after it scoured the groove of my enamel for the slightest hint of yellowing with such a fineness of friction"…

***

>>6767526

Book VI: Masochist's Meiosis

(3)

My fanned hand glided sheer across the wheel's Leather
on my Steed's journey
upon the positive Arc,
up the phalanx of the fable'd dowager,
past her orchids, orchards, anything,
along the ridge of her pollex eerily flex'd
till the tufted terrace by musty lace…
I had reached the Buzzer of the city
the tip of her thumb…
Perhaps in glinting keratin
resplends the slow-blown windows mostmodern…

"Come Attend the Munch"

I read bashfully the pseudo-Garamond
after a few apprehensive passes…
Their cordial Deceptor
served me my first sobering Coffee;
its bitter Germ found reflective solace in my taste
for my maiden savoring,
sitting amongst the Damned so kitschy,
Like a Bitch some cage'd woman itches…
the backroom Congress convened
for a new orientation…

“They had constructed a Fortress for themselves,
expecting the great Citadel and its corresponding pornography;”

Skip the explanation, Corpulent Escort;
impudence to impudence is the only true escape…
your ostentatious Armory lay frivolous
in the underwake of theaters and expensive valets!

Tie me to the nearest hobby horse
in this sparse dungeon,
I must be bent over the frame with hands and legs tied,
permission for your girlfriend,
for a spanking is now in order,
*scratching of my back in fashion*,
a coo of halitosis she shudders
stroking my behind with relish and shrinking my scrotum
our perverted old witness is excited
to marvel upon our travails…

The grimy Door hath passed to the servant of its aperture
quadruple Lecherarchs emblazoning the panels of its frame:

an Anoxic, dangle-dried
upon xyr suspended cats' cradle

a Subfemme, bedlam-tied
with her natal contractions vibrat’d to paralysis

a Threesome, specialized
between the maids and their master

a Masochist, sodomized
in hir fit of strapped wantoness...

“SUBSPACE, they call it, when you're done with your abuse…”

The old whip-lady kept me company on the musty couch as I recovered…
for my normal powers of reasoning
were eloping with Etruscan silva,
like opium or dopamine…
I could feel her reluctance
to remain with such a kid,
for,
…a birthday was being celebrated today…

"Happy birthday to the old Chief and his two Pretties!"
I lay immobile in reverie ‘neath their settee:

Olde Dom Janus,
Assented the occasion with a heave of plumbous chest hair;

Wan young Janis
Splayed her succinous mons rightest him,
legs splayed in communal familiarity;

Boy-Lov’d Jonas
give his master's nipple a lick on his left,
cherry red knickers on his naked body;

Yet there was hardly a Fornix to the entire damned establishment…
Where is the evidence
in this descending inversion of time
for all my quailing experiences?
‘Twas period of regression into Youth
for an Opus was forming in my Time,
its Name in mind...

***

>>6767529

Book VI: Masochist's Meiosis

(4)

Temples and City Nights
were open for the weekend
I was clubbin' on the authority's floor
where all their rooms synonymous with each other...

"No one in this block of concrete seems to have seen the purity of light;
all was red, blue, green, black.
Our whole student body, here to mojo at least one night.
No one dancing with lovers, just grinding on these downcast women.
You must move to the center of the throng to see the real tendencies of humanity.
No need to communicate, because your feeble conversation gets trampled
by the steel waves of the subwoofers.
Just talk with your body; however, I had nothing prepared to say."

the 'Kind knows the way…

To the center of that gridded triangle
grated by the seedy streets of the City
to the budless pagoda
with the trademark blacklight graffiti in its basement...

Ventilating on its crowded terraces,
Nepotism strifes my most hedonistic Times,
so when wildly kicking the air supine
in the middle of the formed line,
they actually attempted to intimidate me!
Shame, we would all get kicked out late in the Morning...

What a Foreigner amongst the Twerkers!
Somewhere between the cycling Songs,
they called me Magic,
those who refused me first called me now midchorus...

"Never have hands lit up as when they detect
God’s true dyed sculpture beneath their grimy dermis.
Curve below, delicate bone flexing upwards.
It’s not too bad for mine one far below, but it is quite a bashful fellow
when something happens to contact through denim with it.
No need for mysterious mestizos, their friends, their sex, tonight at all;
just this one kindred spirit, with me for as long as the despicable rhythm
kept her alive…"

Ahtziri came to me
My six-petaled cornflower queen!
The garrote-thin fringe on her sleeves
parroted maizesilk powder’d qirmiz;
with every intimation we beframed more the Door
that rends the genres' Corridor…

Even her peyote proved unnecessary...
She was alone another Shorty paying my way Back…

"All that neon shied away from our journey forward. Tension made our car plane through the passing lines, past the incoherent mass, to a more desirable stretch of Enigma..."

This long hair is not mine, yet it whips the air equine-fine…
Broke the Wineglass to free the Drink
as I jumped on its pompous dining-Table,
after the overnight Return at four in the morning;

Perchance Patricia plays couth the piano inside her Hotel;
I shall cowtow to you Serayites no more,
for Ahtziri’s Queen will be my cornflower-eye'd Means...

Book VII: Matriarch of Ur

In the commencement of my life's Prime,
I can already see deceleration
as a vivification of End's acceleration,
the warmth of their orange pigments
at the immuring of the sodium Orb,
like the lull of the cake-fed Vagrant
plushed the adobe walls of the City’s defunct customshouse,
such cush snuff which daub the burners of the forbidden…

May some purer stuff fuel me home…

The first flight's return relapsed my memory's nighttime;
I must return a leeward aileron trailing the interface of a wing
near uncamber'd in the station of reaping,
pure in light upon the separating edge jaws
flashing similar orange in warning
in vain guise as a pulsar on a fixed path
sailing in the tradestream of the cumulonimbus floor,
indigo firmament, under the rind of the fixed stars
whose inlaid illumination is provided by the lowly skylines and fateful crossroads
provide a vain attempt just glimps'd to format the life of the bedazzled yonder
from nether of the braves' land;
for if one foot recedes back to the cloudy,
we will again hurtle to our doom…

"It's not what is going on about you, its whats inside you that wants to come out…"

"Rouse, rouse… whither we repose from our pillow?
Under the consequential auspices of the patergeist,
whom instills the future in you, whom you won't have met yet
in your sequence till your fruit will have become tepid from the pleasure of its falling…
you shall go with him round the stolid block,
seeing the remnant of your reflection against the buzzing
of the violet streetlamps on the wan window
at utter still of the developing morning…
he has a mission for you that he won't initiate from his self…
the means seems to infuse through you slowly
as he hails the shady doorman in under the slate vault,
the bowels of the artificial world… In we go, all us dwellers,
into the walls saffron from the dust of saffron,
so noble a pigment, yet wantonly forgotten
in its slipshod application
for our eagerness to perform such ashen shames in its angles…
from the thin oak door came my client,
to which I asked her hire to blow me...
What modesty, cracked my guides with beckonance…
inside her Quarter I went, under the zari Canopy.
The unpracticed dance of the ages commencing all around the ruffling rectangle,
for which the moment of climax arrived with the rifting of the loincloths
from her thighs to the great Delta,
a granite chisel'd yoni propped perfectly atip my engorged plume…
a most unwelcoming grind…"

I see a stubborn Wadi in the east
withstanding the throes of the desert,
whose Delta recedes from my psyche
like the Tiger from her basin;

O Matriarch of Ur, misconstrued ursa,
lead me by my hand into the great East;
I will squeeze back wholly
as your green Orientalist,
and excavate your Quarters of leisure…

>>6768864

Book VII: Matriarch of Ur

(2)

For me and the Langue
We had sat in her room in awe of you,
We were all fiddling with our precious-washed rings excitedly;
The bigger of us had cited
the bite of your wistful riding crop
As I had;
Clasp me by my little finger at least to your Powder Room…

Your physiognomy rivets me…
Unwroughtable luminaries so tawny, they irrigated
what has grown and what is to bear There...
Your rapacious face fram’d with
dense locks that curl your sins inside of them,
down to your very shoulders;
zaftig figure, robust countenance…
Each pious wrinkle weighting it paints an iconic sigil;

Our discourse matters not, for it is broken…
I remember not your quotations,
we must speak in proper terms now,
since we are approaching the Archetype
we have so consciously striven toward…

"…your world is not new but novel nonetheless that I peer into…"

Yes!
How I submit to the throes of trivial puberty!

Let's repose to Urb-!
*a finger to my lips*
"DO shirk from the utterance of such an act of establishment;
We mustn't mention the name of that modern place
but keep the City from where sands’ father first eroded
vague and placid in pronunciation,
who built it to remain a bitter mystery."

Come to my Nation, O myrrh-ting'd missal…
Embody the fuming Mistress in whom my nation drowns immersed,
represent Her increasing mystery,
you’re Columbia Intrinsic’s seer…

Culture of your Bowels is mixed with your bloody Waters,
putrifies the Curd from your exhumed monstrosities,
permeating those which nourished of your monasteries;
located far too away to ever want repatriation,
all your Patriarchs are already disgraced,
their winged Beasts jackhammered in high definition,
Your dammed vessels be the avenues of your conquerors,
for their bitterness of their byproducts shall run through…
Stagnant to curdle’d hurdle your eras immemorial…

I pine in the storied basking of her lost Pines
for the highest active fire of her Land,
Yet to my chagrin,
she scorns those dense trappings of my own dear Mazandaran…

"Fine, says I, but what from your sand?"

Book VIII: Wandering the Peninsula

Such a somber countenance…
we were in our former foothills now
the torturing plain longer again to the sallow waters
the disturbances of the moon that much more distant in
the wood where I tried my last cashed greenery;
When I got up to receive her…
Such a young being in my scheme,
she was leaning on my borrowed car,
looking down her unlaced bust after the act,
her cheekbones caught the bounds of my perception...
the only supports that sifted me from her chasms,
all before she looked up and bid me adieu forever,
a scorned part of myself teetering the precipice of this quivering being,
skated her wispy lashes…

I clutched with mine own
the tail of one in vain,

as dashing myself in despair
upon odious vein of pathos,
the strings' edges seemed nary any metallic filament;
they seemed as a sliver of obsidian, a
beer neck slide whose subtle contours
swelled with momentous lava flow,
reuniting with its glass strummers;
glass was made to interface upon
runny silicates with germanium cell phones
computer chips and nanotube cylinders seceding once more…
to fit over the pervasive finger of the new lone piper,
asphyxiated face aped the Orphic gape,
entreating all amorphous conduits work together
in their minute respective circuitries to make,
and ride light the dark corneas;
every time her lids did *blink*,
they bucked me off her into a sober future…

"'How thin is a linear lifeline?'
I wonder,
can it be physical,
made of cratered asphalt
I wonder tonight
on this magnificent balls thirty-nine
County Road 1108;
all the numbers odd from east westward,
all trajectories toward conjecturable,
the nucleus of the vistas via leeward;
I finally stop running away into the night
to savor a gaze toward the beckoning lurch;
guardians asleep sans vigilance,
for murderous lethargy scattered their clairvoyant optic over
Amphetamine Valley…
In the form of flashing radio towers
(they're flashing now)
staccato tungstens oscillating through purple space,
though never attaining the blazing azure
of their metaphorical progenitor transfixing my fabric
that could only be the poseur of Argus…
Alert! Another staccato?!
Look both ways to no
animate illusion (all is dark after all)…
I yearn vacuum-mute for some wandering vehicle to intercept me,
of whose Seratonin deficients inside
would erode my Melatonin defense
into an act smooth as the Road ridden;
Oh fuck me, you swarthy passenger!
Don't even change seats, for I desire a frontal view
to the orgy turn'd leathery burgundy;
Jolt my iridescent 'Cock
'til the white lens' silhouettes
rattle feebly 'round my starless retinas
like silver coins jingle
in the tip jar of a ragass panhandler…
Lofty cedar tops envelop the wanderluster like an obscure manger…"

>>6769963

Book VIII: Wandering the Peninsula

(2)

Its Beacon shone all the brighter at the edge of the Town,
the sand dunes taut as a tendon
yet nipping vacant Produce stalls miles away...
bonfires rashed along the coast,
not to indicate any warnings,
but to be instead,
and to carry on the novelty of the sunset
family by day, couples by night
both refrain from the harrowing Cataract
I finally navigate…

Tread this Teat by dopplerlight
to ply its sustenance!
Tonight was time to wander, not to dance,
no time to grind for lovers,
no time to coddle previous exploits,
verily it was time to wander!

The homeless man told me
heading due opposite the temperate Pardes
was barely pardon to his desert-made metropolis;
that southbound offers his million-beloved's warning
that whoever roots the dunes should sense
some skull-cracking fun at leaden Expense…

The Lighthouse indicating my Quadrant showed me
an image of stepped enlightenment
by its fresnel Lens:
that errant starboard pleasure Yacht,
is a slender gentrifying Assassin instead,
busy condemning the common Crafts leeward;

after the two top corners I rounded the other side
to the allowance of their gated guard
keeping vigil over bud's center…

The Forest composed the Center of the Square
where the mountain lions haunted Her mansions;
perhaps a paring of the residents' former daring
still soured any prospect of their sharing…
As I cast deviant shadows in their windows
and stalked the especially dark bend,
I wanted my Land!

How I still want my deciduous Land!

Woe, I must sleep on its Sand,
or write obscenities in the well trimmed bunkers
just atop the ridge in Prime's Vineyard; no,
I must slumber on His beach till early morning…

the Scrub Jay at the station is hangover silent
and being scolded for his vociferous Trebles…

I watch all the migrants in the morrow…
Farewell to all delusion!
It's such sorrow to rethink Vagrancy's virtues…

I come to realize I squared the Circle instead;
in trying to kiss its Quadrature I flit around capricious,
I had been found wanting of its Demarcation;
I then left the Peninsula almost an island…

I must abandon the skete for a Nation,
The balls-out Fool found it edged a cliff to the dissolving Sea…
he is in trouble now too!