Three more House-Mouse Cock Adventures
(from my dead cousin's journals):
10) A book - Silence - Krauts - Glib - Cockrocked - The Good Angel
Sex in his spare time and despair publishes a book of Poetry: "The Bare Necessities" (or maybe it was "Bra and Panties"-- my memory's weak and I'm just not that into Poetry.)
It meets with an uproar of silence. But then like a drop of dew it all glimmered, ruptured and oozed. And Sex hit the circuits and read in front of mobs of frenzied schoolgirls and housewives and fans of songs about Anne Frank and murderers and louts and krauts and kings and franks and don't-cum-in-my-mouths and couths and sows and sewerites and geyserites and pleaserites and kiss-me-nows and kiss-me-hards and moons and toons and cold balloons dried-up goons and carry-the-logs-to-the-Tiber-this-afternoons. And a man named Glib:
Come to me, son, Glib serenaded.
Glib you see was Sex's father. Or a house-mouse cock elder anyways. Just the same. And he knew a lost fucked poet when he saw one.
"This virus is a bad fire," he said. "Come with me over the mountains."
And so they went. And this was the beginning of Sex and Meth. The Try-New-Things phase. And Sex's teeth wrent vrot.
And, so, the beginning of God.
And Led Zeppelin.
And air so hot the streaming chickens rioted, scores and scores of them, rioted for 7 days and 7 nights, and nigh well blew the grey siestas sizzling skyhigh downwind done.
Glib and Sex frolicked and hillocked and bumstocked and cockrocked and mouthfrothed and tonguefrocked and holesocked and lipknocked and gerbilized and groinwacked and hiplicked and buttsliced and dickrucked and bumrashered and bumfrytied and hogtied and ballpried and egglied and scrocried and quiveried and neighed and flayed and frayed and freighted and tipped and tipped and tipped and dipped and overed and overed and frained and frained and frained.
And Sex, emerging from the fog like a God resplendent in oily Wheats n' Nuts (it does a body good!), swore never to write again. Splash. Splash. Down the stairs and back up again. More like an angel really. A really special angel. Angled up at the window. Down at the world. A hurled bit of frothed angel spittle we fight over and kill each other for. Over our dead bodies!!
Unless he was praying for it. Our good angel Sex. And praying for it good. God damn it!!
11) Math - Lambs - Kneeling - Breath of God - Lotion - Rape - Dropped - Reenactments
High school. Sex's the captain of the math team. At practice one day a freshman girl keeps staring at him. He asks her out. She says "I'd Love to."
After a movie ("Silence of the Lambs" I think) she says "Let's go for a ride."
Sex was tingling. Out into the country.
Turn here she says. Sex turns.
Stop here. Sex stops.
Come with me into the corn fields. Sex goes.
She drops to her knees. Unzips him. There in the moonlight. In the corn.
And two hairless testicles pop out at her.
O, how cute, she exclaims, you wax!
But where's the cock? she ponders.
And then it hits her: a house mouse cock!
O, My God she exclaims so loudly that the breath from the elongated twangy syllable she made of the word "God" swept over Sex's balls and on to his tiny hidden cock. And it all tingles. Tingles like all the stars. All the stars crushed into a dot. A scorched waiting primordial dot.
It was as though the hand of God or some other great power or creature had touched them. He was petrified. Primary. Excited beyond the capacity of anything that measures. Mass or girth. Demons or Colin Firth.
"I didn't even think these existed," she marvels. "I thought it was like that snowman or the hairy guy in the woods."
O, My God, she exclaimed again and again the winds (like the breath of, and nearing of, God himself-- or herself or itself or Itzhak Perlman's sweetest cords) caressed Sex's balls.
"I thought it was just a myth." And now she was narrating as though in a trance. "Something you'd find in the tabloids and fairy tales."
O, My God.
O, My God.
And the winds kept blowing.
And Sex's balls were tingling off the charts. Like a melted down Nuclear Reactor.
Out there in the corn. In the moonlight.
And the famous line from the movie came back to him:
It puts the lotion on its skin.
This opened up in Sex. Felt like a raw wound. Like a gaping fig. And he imagined, in his confused lust-daze-fury, skinning this nerd, this little impudent math nerd, who was, unbelievably (o, strange, strange world) blowing like a God against his hidden cock and thrust-out balls.
Skin her alive!
She was gawking. O-My-Godding.
And he was fantasizing.
It puts the lotion on its skin.
He grabbed her. Threw her to the ground. Pulled down her pants. Ripped off her panties. Mounted her.
His young pink balls rubbed painfully against her hairy twat.
O, Lord, he thought.
O, Lord. O, Lord.
And, finally, Sex collapsed in a young boy's cumless climax.
The moon was so beautiful. He imagined it was an ocean. An ocean of milk. And he clung to it. Hugged it. Dipped under and into it. And back up. Mmmmmmmmmmmm.
She pressed charges.
He was arrested.
But when they examined her they find no traces of semen or forced entry.
And when they examined Sex it all made sense. A House-Mouse Cock!
All the nurses crooned and there were several O-My-Gods. A chorus of angels: breath sweeping over the accused smooth and tingling genitals. Tingling. Tingling. Tingling!!
Sex passed out.
But his dad stepped in. Set up a sholarship for the precocious freshman nerd.
The charges were dropped.
And, until puberty (age 29) and even after (even after he met Red Young Whore) Sex would steal out into the cornfields on decently moonlit nights and reenact the scene.
It puts the lotion on its skin.
It puts the lotion on its skin.
It puts the lotion on its skin.
Out there in the moonlight. In the corn. Nearly howling.
12) A piss - Annoucement - Agonized - Dwarfing - Clydesdales - Panties - Owls - Blood
Sex was taking a piss at the airport when a husky but very reassuring female voice (a king of motherly voices) announced:
would the man who left his keys and wedding band by gate 17 please return for them??
And Sex was saddened. And transported. And agonized. Twisted and wistful. Inflamed. Aggrieved. All in a moment. Like rain while the sun's shining. Gleaming. Lightbulbing. Shivered. Shaked. All-aslaked. Baked and Cherried. Stemmed and hemmed. Ho'd and Ha'd. Rightnow'd. And tomorrow'd.
Hmmmmm, Sex Pondered, there's a poem here.
And so the House-Mouse Cock sat down, there on the cheap-tiled floor, while all around him all manner of traveling males took out their cocks (most of them dwarfing his of course) and spewed forth their vigorous or weak or middling piss
But Sex Ableton was undeterred. Undistracted. And the tender but honest and wise, worldly wise, ideas and sentiments flowed forth in such melodies (Sex channeling and directing and transforming according to the needs of the poem's fragile moments and movements the clanging and sometimes perfectly harmonious streams of piss. A Mozart of piss! A Clydesdale of Mice. A Bride of Rice. Kind of.)
Sex was transported into the sad and distracted and maybe-desperate soul of the heretofore mentioned Man who forgot or abandoned his keys and wedding band. Sigh. And the poem strangley (O, Sex, you magician) was filled with panties and PMS. Pansies and lipstick. Dildos and chapstick. An epic. Pink and gleaming. Strict and streaming. Crypt and steaming. Flipped and creaming.
And so Sex read this poem the following night to a packed standing-room-only San Diego Poetry and Sewing and Cutlery Club.
Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.
Everyone closed their eyes as though with pennies. Like owls. Sighed and Gaga'd. Even as he introduced the poem: talking about how he'd heard the announcement and knew in a flash of intermingled and intracontradicting emotions (O, the glimpses we get into Genius!) that he had, just had, to write this poem. A veritable avalanche of sighs and pensive owls. Oooos & Aaaaahhhhhs.
And forgive me God but I want to throw up. Throw up all over this Sex Ableton. And bend him under you God. Face down God (your time-space magnificence in all its great swollen glory and gore). And God forgive me God. Make you make him bleed God.
Bleed God Bleed.
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