The milky flame slips upward.

I am my own pimp.

I am a hooker in a gold suit, the shiny stretch-tite legs of my shine-brite pants hugging my sack, flared and assless like disco chaps, my curve-tipped, painted-on mustache the only sign of gender.  Girlie-man is what I am…I stand before a mirror like a blue-jawed pre-op before the make-up.  Only in private do I manage to be a man, bare-faced, in man-clothes (a hirsute, pasty suit of skins, with a penis hanging from the folds of my vagina, my thrust-out nipples nested in the hair).  I am a man-growing-into-woman, infinite, like a snake eating its tail…a softly curved penis, covered in scales from the hide of an impotent, impoverished leper who lurches slantways in a dank alley, yellow and naked inside his trenchcoat, hocking his arm, its twisted fist a knot of dead skin, the giant head of a sleeping, muted penis, severed from an ogre, its veins like dead vines submerged beneath translucent masses of cheesy flesh.

I cry my warped cry into the damp alley air.  Alas, alack!  …my penis-arm, my dead-arm…its fist a functionless head…tied off with surgical tubing until dried out, spindle-thin, papery, then splitting…falling off, the heavy mass of the bulb pulling down until the string-thin, dried-out vein breaks and it all falls…a gigantic cock hanging on a thread of papery vein…twisting and dangling for an instant, then dropping to the floor like a sack of frozen meat.

I am my own self, yes…my own private junky.

I put a nail in my vein, yes…I shot it aaall up.

I sucked up some, too, and fucked all night to pay…lost my mind in a fever-dream, tied to the bed posts by surgical tubing, needles sticking in all my limbs while I got reamed…and sometime before the seven hours slipped away, before the seven roughneck firefighters slid down the pole to a false rattle-bell, to find naught but a pool of sweet cream…sometime before…there was a rager on the ground floor.

Yes…a crowd of grimy roughnecks stood around the open hole of white light, erect penises craning upward from their hanging stones, the hot, milky flame slipping upward into a nostril of my brain.

Why does it feel so good, pulling all the world up a tube?

The answer is printed on my brain, on the pulpy gray snakes rotting in my skull – a casket, a pulp-mill, a bowl of luke-warm, blood-soaked-milky-rags, a chamber pot fashioned from bone and stuffed with shit (may it turn to liquid and trickle down!).  My brain stem, my eyes and ears, my nose and throat, funnels for the blood, the oatmeal-textured-shit, the information I’ve digested (though you can’t read newspapers once they’re mush). The lost periods trickle down my gums, down, down, down from the the many slippery, bloody vaginas, the fecund, earthy vaginas, the ornately beautiful, curling-mud vaginas of my menstruating brain, all once fucked deep by the purest cocaine…blown from the tips of curved-bone penises, merciless ivory penises fucking me piercingly like the tusks of elephants, spearing into my brain through the gaudily opened pores of my fleshskin.

Now there is only the aftermath, the blur-print letters dripping from my teeth…forming words that dissolve on my tongue before I swallow them, dissolving in the mucous.  All the ideas are gone forever, a sludge that slides down my esophagus…  It’s just the same as when you come inside me, when I suckle your wooden cock until it purrs, until it rattles like false teeth and squirts its beam.  If you want to know, you have to open me up, take a look inside my mouth…

These are my gums, my slippery teeth (A gooey column of semen descends from molar to molar, pinkish…because malnourished smokers suffer from bleeding gums.)

I am ill!  I am sick!  I smoked too much…I loved and suffered.  But not at all because of you…

…or was it all because of you…?

The iron here is cold and dead.  I have no inflection; I tell no layered truth. I lie here on the cold tile floor.  I’m a simple case of much too much.

Like a snake eating its tail, I suck my own tip endlessly, with a tire iron rammed in my ass, a cold hard plug of metal and rust…  I lie here in the aftermath, the after-rape. I fuck that iron and rail it with the deepest masochistic pleasure, hearing it scrape on the cold wet tiles.  I loathingly fuck it and I cum.  My whole body rots and shakes and falls apart from the intestines out, erupting into the odor of fermented fish.  I am ever the viper.  I chew my way out with rotting teeth, searching with my tongue for the gold that’s at my center, the dollar value of my heart, which has come up, a plum-like lump at the core of vomit…

…I pick up my own dead arm from off the dirty floor, another one of the pieces in the pool.  I start at the edges…

Oh, God! Feeding on one’s own arm; it’s a pure pleasure.  I chew and chew on lush dead skin.  I swallow, feel the dopeness of that glow from within…

Now, swallowing my own dear heart, I have become a solid gold baby returned to the beauty of infinite confusions, infinite wildness.

I am dense with dollar value, the dollar value of a heart, a slug of flesh, a hot wet hunk of contraband, a bundle of greasy bills, a weight exchanged on the scales for equal pounds of cash…

Even on the floor, even on the cold dead tiles beneath, I still blind you all with my golden, gaudy shine.

My superficial sweet-ness, my assless chaps of tawdry gold: all yours…aaahhhhhll yours.  I open my ass as you and your team of roughnecks troop in and wait in line, casually masturbating, preparing your phones to swoop in and scoop up the magic of your first pump-railing-of-a-dilettante.  Meanwhile, my glister sprains your eyes and dizzies you into nausea…

Why oh why does the slow, selfish killing taste so sweet?


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