Showing posts with label sex ableton. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sex ableton. Show all posts
Monday, October 26, 2009
Rauan Klassnik Fondles Seth Abramson
Over on HTMLGIANT today (the beginning of their Mean Week 2) Blake Butler makes the connection between Sex Ableton (House-Mouse Cock) and Seth Abramson and asks if I've gone too far. Have I?
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Seth Abramson, Obscenities, Taboos and Self-Obsessives
This blog gets lots of hits from people (?) googling phrases like "Big Cock Contest," "Angry Cock," "Fuck Off," "I'm Gonna Beat Your Fuckin' Ass," "Mouse Cock," "Female Pleasure," etc, etc.
But, strangely, "Seth Abramson" also brings a lot of folks here. As many as any of the obscene phrases listed above.
Is Seth really so popular? Or does he just google his name several times a day? :) I'm playing :)
This isn't a post about Seth. It's a post about obsessions.
People are obsessed with sex. (Duh!!!). Obscenties. (Duh!!!). Taboo. (Duh!!!) Themselves. (Duh!!!)
I wonder how many people google themselves regularly? Daily? Certainly a lot of poets and so-called poets do.
Long live obsessions!
Long live Seth Abramson et al !
Long live Fuck Off!
Long live Big Cock Contest!
Long live House Mouse Contest!
Actually, I'm just realizing this IS a post about Seth Abramson. Or, more accurately, my infatuation with Seth. Or, more accurately, my infatuation with Seth's semi-pro blogging. Seth's semi-pro blogging which is now defunct. Or for a while anyways.
But, please come back, Seth. Please.
I have visions of yr blog in disrepair. People abusing it. Blood. Urine. Dog shit. Bird shit. Bat shit. All sorts of manner. So much happens to neglected things, Seth. I can see your columns and pensive looks and they are on fire. Peeling. Fading away. Covered up in a mess of fluids and dirt. O, Seth.
Come back, young man, come back. This is driving me absolutely insane!!
House Mouse Cock-- Sex Ableton --- 3 more Adventures
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.
(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.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
House-Mouse Cock -- The Adventures of Sex Ableton (3 more) ----
Three more House-Mouse Cock Adventures
(from my dead cousin's journals):
7) Far Away - Puberty - Fingers - Plunger - Martin
And far away in a different time and place but linked magically to the primordial anarchy (the fabled mass of wine, bomb, and blood) Sex Ableton was going through puberty. Yes, Sex Ableton, the geek-frog-kid everyone had abused so mercilessly all through school and into his tenure at the PPSDIC, found himself, at the age of 29, finally in the throes of puberty.
And he was confused. Bewildered. Sometimes he'd dash from his cubicle and entrench himself on the heroic seat of the sub-assistant-quasi-proto-
never-gonna-be-PPSDIC's toilet and suck on his small fat fingers.
"Things are happening to me," Sex screamed. "Things are happening."
The janitor, Bluesy (former green beret), leapt in with a plunger.
Seth grovelled and licked Bluesy's boots.
Bluesy shoved the plunger down on Sex's head.
And declared: "You are my unicorn now, baby."
And he pranced around like a forest aboriginal.
"From now on, baby, you will call me Martin the Sword. And you will never ever ever say anything bad about the immortal Pablo Neruda because he was perfect. Just fucking perfect."
But Sex was out of it. The plunger had sucked all the blood up into his head.
And he was super-dreaming. An extremely delicate and rare, bright crystalline vision:
A battlefield. Skulls adorned with butterflies. Orange and blue. And horses in their death throes. (a kind of puberty also). And Sex parades through like an Angel of Death. No timid House-Mouse Cock now! He leans down, one by one, and, caressing their ears together between his left hand, slits each throat with his right.
8) Bored - Locked in - The Mirror - Clean Up - A Dentist - And, again,... And, again...
Sex grew bored and mad.
The great sea-cunts he'd sailed over, adventured in (on jet-skis, and with scuba, and on the elegant deck of a replica of the Santa Maria), and bubbled and pissed in no longer satisfied his enormous but shifting and sometimes shiftless appetite.
He ordered his staff to lock him in his room and to pass his meals in through a prison-style window. Only once a week would they be allowed in to clean things up. And this was a job they grew to dread.
After one particularly nasty clean-up two of the cleaners hanged themselves in the orange-tree orchard.
And, so, Sex had to pay outrageous sums of money for simple cleaners. No matter. He was bored. and mad.
And money was no object. The House-Mouse Cock Consultancy Co was flourishing. Like a dragon on fire. No, not like a dragon: a squirrel glutting itself in cicada season.
Hanging a couple feet over the exact center of his bed (Sex had a kind of Greek or Egyptian mind) was an over-sized oval mirror. And fringed like the sun. Kind of like one you might put in a budgie's cage.
Sex spent all of his waking hours (and he hardly slept) in front of the mirror: admiring, bewitched, bemired, besotted, begotten and rebegotten. On fire. In love. Endlessly lost in a kind of cocaine paradise: staring into the eyes and body of a magnificent creature: himself: Sex Ableton: Adonis: Lord of the seasons: Of the flowers and bees: Of the king's ransomed knees: A star's blue light.
And Sex spoke to this creature. Touched it. Stroked it. Kissed it. Snuggled up against it. Preened it. Chirped to it. Moaned at it. Tried to feed it. Drooled on it. Smeared shit on it. Masturbated on to it. Collapsed against it, sobbing.
The problem, you see, is that Sex, in his attentions, beheld and lavished himself on not a perfect, unchanging, constant creature but on a distorted and constantly deteriorating and degrading image. And the more this sacred figure was fondled, abused, sinking, debased, the more frenzied and renewed and manic Sex's attentions became. It was a vicious cycle.
He ripped his hair out and rubbed it against it. He rubbed his balls against it. Stood on his now-bald head and rubbed his balls against it. Rubbed them raw. Completely raw. It was gone. The creature was gone. And Sex cursed his balls. Whipped them. Rubbed salt into them. And vinegar. and garlic. And had a fine meal. Of his balls. There in his madness.
And he was reinvigorated. By his balls. Flowing in his blood now: his balls.
He tore his teeth out and smeared the blood on it. It was gone.
He lay down in anguish and howled. It was gone.
He sprang up and assailed it. The glass crashed down on him. It was gone.
He devoured the glass. Whistled and howled. Kept touching his face. It was gone.
He curled up in a ball.
Smashed through the iron gates of life.
Nothing helped.
It was gone.
And, so, at the end of the week the cleaners, wearing their masks and gloves, tiptoed in gingerly. One hauled Sex into a livestock shower and exploded him with a hose (the type prisons and institutions love to use. I'd love to use one too. Wouldn't you?)
Then he was fastened into a great pink chair. And a dentist was brought in. And a hair doctor. And a hair stylist. Big fat women with pliers and blowtorches. Canaries and napkins. A postcard from Verona.
But, Sex just stared into space. No thoughts at all. No feelings. No Mozart, or Beethoven. No Clockwork Orange (so, what's it going to be then, eh?). Nothing.
Finally he was dumped back in his room.
And, after a spell, out of his sad-curled crouch (the type millipedes die in) he peered up between his fingers and beheld in the high heavenly arched distance his own image. And his body flooded with sugar.
He flashed up on to the bed dripping like syrup and pulled the pristine, immaculate God-self-image against him.
And so on. And so on.
9) Exclusives - Partners - Bribes - Absorptions
The House-Mouse Consultancy Co partnered up (at first) with vendors. (Ball-glue vendors. Ball-strap vendors. Enhancement vendors. Psychologocockalists. etc. etc.)
The House-Mouse Co had several 1-900 numbers. Soothing voices sending you "no obligation" videos. Treatment options. The suavest voices in the world. And with substance too.
With a variety of treatment choices ("ways to leaf," the brochures stated) the House-Mouse Consultancy Co could claim without the shadow of a niggling doubt that yr cock could tower up an additional one to two millimeters. And in some cases just as much, if not more so, in girth.
And then of course there was always the expensive but guaranteed HMCMPOC and this of course included the popular Owl-Three-Step.
And Sex knew first-hand (eye in the rubble) that all you had to do was mention the Owl-Three-Step and ANY House-Mouse Cock would stutter and grovel in a mad got-their-panties-in-a-knot frenzy.
Sex arranged increasingly-favorable commission structures with all these "partners." And if strict, by-the-book commissions weren't to be had, Sex asked for and received kickbacks. Huge filthy kickbacks.
Sex was a natural. Bloomed. Blossomed. Arched his back. Wolfed down the moon. It pulsed through his blood. Burst from his cock. "The House-Mouse Cock is howling moon-cum" he giggled to himself.
Later on Sex absorbed all his partners. Just threatened to cut them off. That's all he did. Just threatened them. And that was that. Cat in the hat.
The "partners," you see, had no other customers. All their business came from the House-Mouse Cock Co. (There was no law that said you had to buy from the House-Mouse Cock Co's partners. In fact, how would the average House-Mouse Cock even know? But it was so--- like everyone in Mexico has to exchange their money for gasoline at a government run Pemex station, everyone, globally, bought from, directly or indirectly, from the House-Mouse Cock Co empire-monster.)
In short, they were all assimilated. Like krill down into a whale.
And Sex knew what to do. He raped these poor bastards. Stripped them down completely. And then tossed them on to a junk heap where he and Red would indulge in the most macabre and deviant couplings.
It was the size of Kentucky, this junk heap. In fact it was Kentucky. And toothless bango players (millions of them) flocked to egg our heroes on. To rile up their lusts. And levitate their busts. And oil their nuts. And paper their butts. And flavor their ruts. And purple their fruts.
And, Sex, stood up over these bango players and baptised them in his filth. And they were his fresh-faced recruits (sort of, anyways). They became his army. His thugs. His goons. His demons itching at the bit to be unleashed: mad toothless bango-playing horse-recruit inflamers!
But most of the time, to tell the truth, Sex and Red just sat together sipping milk shakes. Enjoying sunsets. And eating each other's ticks.
(from my dead cousin's journals):
7) Far Away - Puberty - Fingers - Plunger - Martin
And far away in a different time and place but linked magically to the primordial anarchy (the fabled mass of wine, bomb, and blood) Sex Ableton was going through puberty. Yes, Sex Ableton, the geek-frog-kid everyone had abused so mercilessly all through school and into his tenure at the PPSDIC, found himself, at the age of 29, finally in the throes of puberty.
And he was confused. Bewildered. Sometimes he'd dash from his cubicle and entrench himself on the heroic seat of the sub-assistant-quasi-proto-
never-gonna-be-PPSDIC's toilet and suck on his small fat fingers.
"Things are happening to me," Sex screamed. "Things are happening."
The janitor, Bluesy (former green beret), leapt in with a plunger.
Seth grovelled and licked Bluesy's boots.
Bluesy shoved the plunger down on Sex's head.
And declared: "You are my unicorn now, baby."
And he pranced around like a forest aboriginal.
"From now on, baby, you will call me Martin the Sword. And you will never ever ever say anything bad about the immortal Pablo Neruda because he was perfect. Just fucking perfect."
But Sex was out of it. The plunger had sucked all the blood up into his head.
And he was super-dreaming. An extremely delicate and rare, bright crystalline vision:
A battlefield. Skulls adorned with butterflies. Orange and blue. And horses in their death throes. (a kind of puberty also). And Sex parades through like an Angel of Death. No timid House-Mouse Cock now! He leans down, one by one, and, caressing their ears together between his left hand, slits each throat with his right.
8) Bored - Locked in - The Mirror - Clean Up - A Dentist - And, again,... And, again...
Sex grew bored and mad.
The great sea-cunts he'd sailed over, adventured in (on jet-skis, and with scuba, and on the elegant deck of a replica of the Santa Maria), and bubbled and pissed in no longer satisfied his enormous but shifting and sometimes shiftless appetite.
He ordered his staff to lock him in his room and to pass his meals in through a prison-style window. Only once a week would they be allowed in to clean things up. And this was a job they grew to dread.
After one particularly nasty clean-up two of the cleaners hanged themselves in the orange-tree orchard.
And, so, Sex had to pay outrageous sums of money for simple cleaners. No matter. He was bored. and mad.
And money was no object. The House-Mouse Cock Consultancy Co was flourishing. Like a dragon on fire. No, not like a dragon: a squirrel glutting itself in cicada season.
Hanging a couple feet over the exact center of his bed (Sex had a kind of Greek or Egyptian mind) was an over-sized oval mirror. And fringed like the sun. Kind of like one you might put in a budgie's cage.
Sex spent all of his waking hours (and he hardly slept) in front of the mirror: admiring, bewitched, bemired, besotted, begotten and rebegotten. On fire. In love. Endlessly lost in a kind of cocaine paradise: staring into the eyes and body of a magnificent creature: himself: Sex Ableton: Adonis: Lord of the seasons: Of the flowers and bees: Of the king's ransomed knees: A star's blue light.
And Sex spoke to this creature. Touched it. Stroked it. Kissed it. Snuggled up against it. Preened it. Chirped to it. Moaned at it. Tried to feed it. Drooled on it. Smeared shit on it. Masturbated on to it. Collapsed against it, sobbing.
The problem, you see, is that Sex, in his attentions, beheld and lavished himself on not a perfect, unchanging, constant creature but on a distorted and constantly deteriorating and degrading image. And the more this sacred figure was fondled, abused, sinking, debased, the more frenzied and renewed and manic Sex's attentions became. It was a vicious cycle.
He ripped his hair out and rubbed it against it. He rubbed his balls against it. Stood on his now-bald head and rubbed his balls against it. Rubbed them raw. Completely raw. It was gone. The creature was gone. And Sex cursed his balls. Whipped them. Rubbed salt into them. And vinegar. and garlic. And had a fine meal. Of his balls. There in his madness.
And he was reinvigorated. By his balls. Flowing in his blood now: his balls.
He tore his teeth out and smeared the blood on it. It was gone.
He lay down in anguish and howled. It was gone.
He sprang up and assailed it. The glass crashed down on him. It was gone.
He devoured the glass. Whistled and howled. Kept touching his face. It was gone.
He curled up in a ball.
Smashed through the iron gates of life.
Nothing helped.
It was gone.
And, so, at the end of the week the cleaners, wearing their masks and gloves, tiptoed in gingerly. One hauled Sex into a livestock shower and exploded him with a hose (the type prisons and institutions love to use. I'd love to use one too. Wouldn't you?)
Then he was fastened into a great pink chair. And a dentist was brought in. And a hair doctor. And a hair stylist. Big fat women with pliers and blowtorches. Canaries and napkins. A postcard from Verona.
But, Sex just stared into space. No thoughts at all. No feelings. No Mozart, or Beethoven. No Clockwork Orange (so, what's it going to be then, eh?). Nothing.
Finally he was dumped back in his room.
And, after a spell, out of his sad-curled crouch (the type millipedes die in) he peered up between his fingers and beheld in the high heavenly arched distance his own image. And his body flooded with sugar.
He flashed up on to the bed dripping like syrup and pulled the pristine, immaculate God-self-image against him.
And so on. And so on.
9) Exclusives - Partners - Bribes - Absorptions
The House-Mouse Consultancy Co partnered up (at first) with vendors. (Ball-glue vendors. Ball-strap vendors. Enhancement vendors. Psychologocockalists. etc. etc.)
The House-Mouse Co had several 1-900 numbers. Soothing voices sending you "no obligation" videos. Treatment options. The suavest voices in the world. And with substance too.
With a variety of treatment choices ("ways to leaf," the brochures stated) the House-Mouse Consultancy Co could claim without the shadow of a niggling doubt that yr cock could tower up an additional one to two millimeters. And in some cases just as much, if not more so, in girth.
And then of course there was always the expensive but guaranteed HMCMPOC and this of course included the popular Owl-Three-Step.
And Sex knew first-hand (eye in the rubble) that all you had to do was mention the Owl-Three-Step and ANY House-Mouse Cock would stutter and grovel in a mad got-their-panties-in-a-knot frenzy.
Sex arranged increasingly-favorable commission structures with all these "partners." And if strict, by-the-book commissions weren't to be had, Sex asked for and received kickbacks. Huge filthy kickbacks.
Sex was a natural. Bloomed. Blossomed. Arched his back. Wolfed down the moon. It pulsed through his blood. Burst from his cock. "The House-Mouse Cock is howling moon-cum" he giggled to himself.
Later on Sex absorbed all his partners. Just threatened to cut them off. That's all he did. Just threatened them. And that was that. Cat in the hat.
The "partners," you see, had no other customers. All their business came from the House-Mouse Cock Co. (There was no law that said you had to buy from the House-Mouse Cock Co's partners. In fact, how would the average House-Mouse Cock even know? But it was so--- like everyone in Mexico has to exchange their money for gasoline at a government run Pemex station, everyone, globally, bought from, directly or indirectly, from the House-Mouse Cock Co empire-monster.)
In short, they were all assimilated. Like krill down into a whale.
And Sex knew what to do. He raped these poor bastards. Stripped them down completely. And then tossed them on to a junk heap where he and Red would indulge in the most macabre and deviant couplings.
It was the size of Kentucky, this junk heap. In fact it was Kentucky. And toothless bango players (millions of them) flocked to egg our heroes on. To rile up their lusts. And levitate their busts. And oil their nuts. And paper their butts. And flavor their ruts. And purple their fruts.
And, Sex, stood up over these bango players and baptised them in his filth. And they were his fresh-faced recruits (sort of, anyways). They became his army. His thugs. His goons. His demons itching at the bit to be unleashed: mad toothless bango-playing horse-recruit inflamers!
But most of the time, to tell the truth, Sex and Red just sat together sipping milk shakes. Enjoying sunsets. And eating each other's ticks.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
House-Mouse Cock -- The Adventures of Sex Ableton (3 more) --
More Sex Ableton (House-Mouse Cock) Adventures:
4) Alcohol - Donkeys - A Pill - The Fray - Gusto
Red got drunk and ended up in a barn with a bunch of horses and donkeys. It wasn't a barn really. It was her bedroom. Their bedroom. Her and Sex's. And, then, in the middle of rugged couplings, triplings, fourlings, neighings, brayings and all manner of frothed moanings, Sex walked in. And he was flawed. And lock-jawed. And frozen like a cold hummingbird I'd like to walk up to, palm, bring in the house and place down in the middle of the dining room table.
Sex's heart was barely beating. (The scratching of a trapped rat.) His soul an ice age. Red didn't blink. She leaned over (the donkeys still inside her) and slipped a small white pill into Sex's mouth. And he was instantly revived. Demonically. But calm. And horny. Insatiably horny. Rust-in-the-blood horny.
And, so, he walked into the long-eared fray with frightening aplomb and handled and received those gruesome beasts with an honest, brilliant and surging gusto.
5) Purring - Street-rat - Clydesdales - - HMCMPOC - Fumes
Sex goes to a penis-enlargement center. The doctor says he can help.
"But young man," he purrs into his ear. "There are physical limits that govern us. Irrevocable limits we dare not and must not cross. When I'm done with you, though, your penis will be much larger than a small House-Mouse's cock. It'll be the size of an average street rat's cock. And street-like and rattish in color and appearance too."
Sex was crestfallen. How would this help this social life? His esteem? His career?
Sex had always dreamed of more and more heroic endeavors. Dreamed of himself on top of a bright red fire engine stroking a pretty dalmation. Dreamed he was urging on, in a bright opium wind, a team of Clydesdales who frothed up magnificently beneath his heroic whip. Dreamed that he strode up to burning buildings and blew them out with heroic breath. And if that didn't work: heroic piss. But now these dreams all lay in ruins.
A Street-Rat's Cock! Sex crawled away into the rubble. His tail coiled sadly behind him was the last thing the Doctor saw.
"Come out of there," the doctor begged. "I'm not finished yet."
A tear-filled eye appeared between two bents pieces of rebar. Sex was baited.
"Tell me, Doctor," he implored. "Tell me!"
"Well, young man," the Doctor began. "I think you're an excellent candidate for the HMCMPOC."
"Huh?"
"The House-Mouse Cock to Mammoth Progressive Operations Center. The HMCMPOC, which I head up, by the way, by the by and by, o my, takes a young man like you through progressive operations and gene therapy and dietary supplements and patches and transfusions and delusions and pancakes and syrup and sap and quack-quack quack---- Voila! The House-Mouse Cock's turned into a Mammoth-Cock!
Generally we go from House-Mouse Cock to Street-Rat Cock. Then on to Peacock-Cock (their cocks are bigger than you'd think.) And then on to Street-Cat Cock. The next operation lifts you up to Iguana-Cock (big mature orange iguana cock). Then we sail up to Weasel-Cock. Lap-Dog Cock's next. Then the Olive-Ridley-Sea-Turtle Cock. Emperor Hirohito's cock. Then, a brief stop over with a Hedge-Hog's Cock (African variety, they're the cutest). Warthog-Cock's the obvious progression. And, gathering speed now, on to the Whooping Crane (tho that's quite expensive. but don't worry we have a very flexible payment plan and further discounts are possible if you'll be a HMCMPOC spokesperson)..."
This excited Sex terribly. His eye, still framed in rubble, started to roll back. He was obviously, inside all the toppled concrete and wrecked wood, etc, etc, pleasuring himself. The Doctor was completely nonplussed. He'd seen this sort of thing before. And things far more sordid. Unspeakably sordid! And, so, on he continued.
"Surprisingly the Dung Beetle's up next. Then the Bull Shark. A short stay with the Koala bear. The impala. The great-horned Owl. The pygmy owl. The common barn owl. (that's what we call the OTS, the Owl-Three-Step.) Then we push on seriously. With real commitment. No room for error now. No wiggle room at all. No sitting on the pot and thinking What-if-what-if. No! Behold: the brown bear. The forest pig. The okapi. The Paramecium. (yes, strangely enough the Paramecium. Sometimes, young man, you must take a step backwards before you leap into glory.) The mountain goat. The open boat. (that's for aesthetic reasons.). La Scala. (for aesthetic reasons too, obviously.) The leaning tower of pisa. (now we're cooking, man. now, we're cooking.)
And then in one finally elegant and brilliant leap: The Mammoth.
The Great-Woolly-Mammoth Cock!!
How about that, young man??"
But the Doctor was alone. All alone in the delicious and highly-addictive fumes of cock progressive verbage. And, for a moment, he was frightened. Then everything lost its pale-green hue. Settled nicely back into place. The Doctor sat down. Took out and lit a cigarette.
Sex's eye was closed--the eyeball, beneath its lid, pulsing vigorously.
Sex, buried in rubble, sated and drifted off into sleep, was dreaming. (And that's a whole different story.)
6) Trembling - Geese - A bed- Yaboo - Devil's Magic
I am still trembling. Not two blocks from our house, on the way, this morning, to buy a new Torah for uncle Abie I stumbled into and found myself enveloped in chaos.
Here in the middle of the street, on market day (geese slaughtered on all sides) was Sex Ableton on a four-post, canopied king-plus bed carried ably aloft by twelve dark-burning eunuchs. The bed was bedecked with white-silver sheets and dozens of burning-red pillows and gold-green streamers were rustling and quivering everywhere.
Framed perfectly in the middle of this stunning ensemble, in a blue Speedo (marked, if you looked close and hard--and I did, with the letters HMC) and a fox-fur coat, dyed pink and purple, and unbuttoned to reveal a smattering of puny but resplendent chest hairs, lay the decadent and luminescent Sex Ableton.
The procession inched forward. The crowd pressed in. Geese screamed and bled. It was utter mayhem. Like Mescaline trying to squeeze you in its fist: every moment broken into a billion moments. Roots of blood sinking deeper and deeper in lost accelerated sinking. All spread out and shivering into ever great eternities of distance. Geese-screaming. Trees shattering. Dogs and shotglasses and whales' tails broken into streams of infinitely broken shards multiplying, bloody and screaming.
And Sex turned to his companion (a small Hindu boy with green eyes, in a diaper and orange t-shirt sporting a crude but excellent likeness of a smiling mouse. The mouse was sitting on his heels and its tail curled back and up towards the child's chin. I was transfixed. That mouse, in my transfixion, transformed, transubstantiated into a young Rimbaud--that sweet-looking vicious child-elf-monster!)
"O, Yaboo," Sex lamented. "I just want to shock myself. I mean really shock myself. Shock myself into complete submission and outrage. Kicked in the face, drooling-- that sort of submission. That sort of shock. Like Blue Velvet. Forget these sheep, Yaboo. And be my Queen. My Queen and My King if you will. O, Yaboo, you've been toying with me for years. O, Yaboo, I am yr shoelaces, your butt-plug, your gun-powder, your floss and yr fleece, your rabbit's foot, yr cloud's eye. I'm the shining hand of a dead charioteer. I'm the bumper of an old combie. O, Yaboo!"
Whereupon, of course, Sex began to sob. Yaboo snuggled up to him. Took his head in his head and started to chant. It was all so beautiful. I started to cry.
But it was evil too. A blue and a black ocean. A cheap bit of devil's magic. I turned and shoved my way out. All the way home. And up the steps.
Even now I can feel the crowded voices, suspended in one needle of sinister darkness, the geese dying, the vultures descending, all the silk and ribbons, and bloody featheres-- all of driving into me, wave after wave. Possessing me. And destroying me.
This must be love. O, Sex Ableton!
I want to cover you in bat shit. Want to scrape you clean with a stale toothbrush. Want to kiss you, kiss you, and kiss you.
Forgive me, Lord.
I am trembling. Damn it, I am trembling.
4) Alcohol - Donkeys - A Pill - The Fray - Gusto
Red got drunk and ended up in a barn with a bunch of horses and donkeys. It wasn't a barn really. It was her bedroom. Their bedroom. Her and Sex's. And, then, in the middle of rugged couplings, triplings, fourlings, neighings, brayings and all manner of frothed moanings, Sex walked in. And he was flawed. And lock-jawed. And frozen like a cold hummingbird I'd like to walk up to, palm, bring in the house and place down in the middle of the dining room table.
Sex's heart was barely beating. (The scratching of a trapped rat.) His soul an ice age. Red didn't blink. She leaned over (the donkeys still inside her) and slipped a small white pill into Sex's mouth. And he was instantly revived. Demonically. But calm. And horny. Insatiably horny. Rust-in-the-blood horny.
And, so, he walked into the long-eared fray with frightening aplomb and handled and received those gruesome beasts with an honest, brilliant and surging gusto.
5) Purring - Street-rat - Clydesdales - - HMCMPOC - Fumes
Sex goes to a penis-enlargement center. The doctor says he can help.
"But young man," he purrs into his ear. "There are physical limits that govern us. Irrevocable limits we dare not and must not cross. When I'm done with you, though, your penis will be much larger than a small House-Mouse's cock. It'll be the size of an average street rat's cock. And street-like and rattish in color and appearance too."
Sex was crestfallen. How would this help this social life? His esteem? His career?
Sex had always dreamed of more and more heroic endeavors. Dreamed of himself on top of a bright red fire engine stroking a pretty dalmation. Dreamed he was urging on, in a bright opium wind, a team of Clydesdales who frothed up magnificently beneath his heroic whip. Dreamed that he strode up to burning buildings and blew them out with heroic breath. And if that didn't work: heroic piss. But now these dreams all lay in ruins.
A Street-Rat's Cock! Sex crawled away into the rubble. His tail coiled sadly behind him was the last thing the Doctor saw.
"Come out of there," the doctor begged. "I'm not finished yet."
A tear-filled eye appeared between two bents pieces of rebar. Sex was baited.
"Tell me, Doctor," he implored. "Tell me!"
"Well, young man," the Doctor began. "I think you're an excellent candidate for the HMCMPOC."
"Huh?"
"The House-Mouse Cock to Mammoth Progressive Operations Center. The HMCMPOC, which I head up, by the way, by the by and by, o my, takes a young man like you through progressive operations and gene therapy and dietary supplements and patches and transfusions and delusions and pancakes and syrup and sap and quack-quack quack---- Voila! The House-Mouse Cock's turned into a Mammoth-Cock!
Generally we go from House-Mouse Cock to Street-Rat Cock. Then on to Peacock-Cock (their cocks are bigger than you'd think.) And then on to Street-Cat Cock. The next operation lifts you up to Iguana-Cock (big mature orange iguana cock). Then we sail up to Weasel-Cock. Lap-Dog Cock's next. Then the Olive-Ridley-Sea-Turtle Cock. Emperor Hirohito's cock. Then, a brief stop over with a Hedge-Hog's Cock (African variety, they're the cutest). Warthog-Cock's the obvious progression. And, gathering speed now, on to the Whooping Crane (tho that's quite expensive. but don't worry we have a very flexible payment plan and further discounts are possible if you'll be a HMCMPOC spokesperson)..."
This excited Sex terribly. His eye, still framed in rubble, started to roll back. He was obviously, inside all the toppled concrete and wrecked wood, etc, etc, pleasuring himself. The Doctor was completely nonplussed. He'd seen this sort of thing before. And things far more sordid. Unspeakably sordid! And, so, on he continued.
"Surprisingly the Dung Beetle's up next. Then the Bull Shark. A short stay with the Koala bear. The impala. The great-horned Owl. The pygmy owl. The common barn owl. (that's what we call the OTS, the Owl-Three-Step.) Then we push on seriously. With real commitment. No room for error now. No wiggle room at all. No sitting on the pot and thinking What-if-what-if. No! Behold: the brown bear. The forest pig. The okapi. The Paramecium. (yes, strangely enough the Paramecium. Sometimes, young man, you must take a step backwards before you leap into glory.) The mountain goat. The open boat. (that's for aesthetic reasons.). La Scala. (for aesthetic reasons too, obviously.) The leaning tower of pisa. (now we're cooking, man. now, we're cooking.)
And then in one finally elegant and brilliant leap: The Mammoth.
The Great-Woolly-Mammoth Cock!!
How about that, young man??"
But the Doctor was alone. All alone in the delicious and highly-addictive fumes of cock progressive verbage. And, for a moment, he was frightened. Then everything lost its pale-green hue. Settled nicely back into place. The Doctor sat down. Took out and lit a cigarette.
Sex's eye was closed--the eyeball, beneath its lid, pulsing vigorously.
Sex, buried in rubble, sated and drifted off into sleep, was dreaming. (And that's a whole different story.)
6) Trembling - Geese - A bed- Yaboo - Devil's Magic
I am still trembling. Not two blocks from our house, on the way, this morning, to buy a new Torah for uncle Abie I stumbled into and found myself enveloped in chaos.
Here in the middle of the street, on market day (geese slaughtered on all sides) was Sex Ableton on a four-post, canopied king-plus bed carried ably aloft by twelve dark-burning eunuchs. The bed was bedecked with white-silver sheets and dozens of burning-red pillows and gold-green streamers were rustling and quivering everywhere.
Framed perfectly in the middle of this stunning ensemble, in a blue Speedo (marked, if you looked close and hard--and I did, with the letters HMC) and a fox-fur coat, dyed pink and purple, and unbuttoned to reveal a smattering of puny but resplendent chest hairs, lay the decadent and luminescent Sex Ableton.
The procession inched forward. The crowd pressed in. Geese screamed and bled. It was utter mayhem. Like Mescaline trying to squeeze you in its fist: every moment broken into a billion moments. Roots of blood sinking deeper and deeper in lost accelerated sinking. All spread out and shivering into ever great eternities of distance. Geese-screaming. Trees shattering. Dogs and shotglasses and whales' tails broken into streams of infinitely broken shards multiplying, bloody and screaming.
And Sex turned to his companion (a small Hindu boy with green eyes, in a diaper and orange t-shirt sporting a crude but excellent likeness of a smiling mouse. The mouse was sitting on his heels and its tail curled back and up towards the child's chin. I was transfixed. That mouse, in my transfixion, transformed, transubstantiated into a young Rimbaud--that sweet-looking vicious child-elf-monster!)
"O, Yaboo," Sex lamented. "I just want to shock myself. I mean really shock myself. Shock myself into complete submission and outrage. Kicked in the face, drooling-- that sort of submission. That sort of shock. Like Blue Velvet. Forget these sheep, Yaboo. And be my Queen. My Queen and My King if you will. O, Yaboo, you've been toying with me for years. O, Yaboo, I am yr shoelaces, your butt-plug, your gun-powder, your floss and yr fleece, your rabbit's foot, yr cloud's eye. I'm the shining hand of a dead charioteer. I'm the bumper of an old combie. O, Yaboo!"
Whereupon, of course, Sex began to sob. Yaboo snuggled up to him. Took his head in his head and started to chant. It was all so beautiful. I started to cry.
But it was evil too. A blue and a black ocean. A cheap bit of devil's magic. I turned and shoved my way out. All the way home. And up the steps.
Even now I can feel the crowded voices, suspended in one needle of sinister darkness, the geese dying, the vultures descending, all the silk and ribbons, and bloody featheres-- all of driving into me, wave after wave. Possessing me. And destroying me.
This must be love. O, Sex Ableton!
I want to cover you in bat shit. Want to scrape you clean with a stale toothbrush. Want to kiss you, kiss you, and kiss you.
Forgive me, Lord.
I am trembling. Damn it, I am trembling.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
My Sister's Legacy, The House-Mouse Cock: The Adventures of Sex Ableton
My dad recently returned from South Africa. One of my cousins had killed herself and he was there to help bury her. To sooth and console. My dad's our family patriarch. If we were elephants (we don't forget, come to think of it) he'd be the matriarch. Anyways, he brought back a trunk full of notebooks: the wild and frenzied ramblings of a mad-woman. My cousin, you see, spent the last two years of her life in a madhouse.
I jumped right in. Most of it's incoherent. Not English. Not any language at all as far as I can tell. But scattered through the piles and piles of scribblings (in no particular order at all) are some certain, strange fictions about this guy named "Sex Ableton."
I'm presenting these episodes (or chapters) in the order in which I've found them. My cousin, let me say, was a gentle, good woman. But, God knows! May she rest in peace.
Here then are the first three of the Sex Ableton Pieces (I'll write some more up when I get a chance):
1) The House-Mouse Cock - Buttocks - Crushed Balls - Greatest
Sex's cock was the size of a house-mouse's but, as we all know, his testicles were of a normal size. Larger even. Terribly large. So large in fact that in order to copulate Sex had to tie his balls back up against his buttocks. This meant no girl-on-top. Absolutely no girl-on-top.
But, one day after a rousing bout with Tequila and dancing (sultry-dank salsa dancing) our loving pair attacked attacked each other on a stone sidewalk. Red* ended up on top, enjoying the minute but lively and inspired house-mouse cock. And Sex's balls were crushed. But this story's got a happy ending. Sex loved it. Went bananas and came, finally, in torrents.
His balls were in pieces. They picked them up. Went home and glued them back together. It was the greatest day of their lives.
* note: Red, who features prominently in these "Adventures," is Red Young Whore.
2) Pubic Public - Brochures - Blushing - Savage Groups
Sex worked at the Public Pubic Standards and Deviations Information Center (PPSDIC) where he had to deal with the public and all their questions and leaf through the brochures with them. Brochures filled with male and female genitals. Of all varieties.
And every time he works with a woman he wonders if she's thinking "this one's a house-mouse cock for sure!" And every time he flips to the pages featuring the characteristics and behaviors and variations and peccadillos and diet and musical tastes and exercise regimens and big flat glossy close-up shots of the House-Mouse Cock he blushes and knows he's betrayed completely. She looks calm, he thinks, a bit shy, perhaps, but inside she is laughing. Laughing uncontrollably. O, poor Sex!
And passing women on the street he knows why they smile and giggle and point and why they gather into savage leering groups:
Behold the House-Mouse Cock ! The House-Mouse Cock !
3) Consultancy - Compatibility - Infinite Blue
The Small House-Mouse Consultancy Co takes off. It goes public. Who knew! Franchises pop up everywhere. Like a rash. Who knew! And haters thumb their noses. And spit on Sex's tiny shoes.
Thousands of House-Mouse cock effigies are burned. The police do nothing. They sit on their hands and grin. The House-Mouse cock community's in mourning. It sags and sighs. And Sex sits in the middle of it sobbing.
But it heals: stronger and stiffer than ever! And with a huge spending appetite. The Small House-Mouse Consultancy Co surges and surges and surges. Even the haters and the burners secretly buy up stock. There's no stopping The Small House-Mouse Consultancy Co.
And Sex becomes filthy rich. Hundreds of private jets. Thousands of houses. Dozens of islands. A couple of galaxies. A taxi company in Arizon. Donut shops. "Mama Rosa" cell-phone cards. Light-bulbs. Crowbar factories. Flu-serums. But it's not enough. Sex is lonely. Needs a mate. A "pareja," as they say.
And, so, women wanting to be compatible flood in to their doctors and have their vaginas closed up to the breadth suitable for a House-Mouse Cock. Little do they know that just like the ocean's ecstatic little fishes, frolicking in its seemingly infinite blue, Sex adores a nice big cunt.
And, so, these women, snobbed, rush back to their doctors and demand to be widened, and widened, and widened and ever-widened into so many gaping seas in search of Sex's fame and fortune and cheap-jewelry and sundry accessories.
Some cunts beach up wider than their waists. Wider than an elephant's waist! Wider than a blue whale's waist! Wider than the waist of a black-hole's pull (it's huge wide suck)!
Sex revels in these new wet-starry and sometimes unstable universes.
I jumped right in. Most of it's incoherent. Not English. Not any language at all as far as I can tell. But scattered through the piles and piles of scribblings (in no particular order at all) are some certain, strange fictions about this guy named "Sex Ableton."
I'm presenting these episodes (or chapters) in the order in which I've found them. My cousin, let me say, was a gentle, good woman. But, God knows! May she rest in peace.
Here then are the first three of the Sex Ableton Pieces (I'll write some more up when I get a chance):
1) The House-Mouse Cock - Buttocks - Crushed Balls - Greatest
Sex's cock was the size of a house-mouse's but, as we all know, his testicles were of a normal size. Larger even. Terribly large. So large in fact that in order to copulate Sex had to tie his balls back up against his buttocks. This meant no girl-on-top. Absolutely no girl-on-top.
But, one day after a rousing bout with Tequila and dancing (sultry-dank salsa dancing) our loving pair attacked attacked each other on a stone sidewalk. Red* ended up on top, enjoying the minute but lively and inspired house-mouse cock. And Sex's balls were crushed. But this story's got a happy ending. Sex loved it. Went bananas and came, finally, in torrents.
His balls were in pieces. They picked them up. Went home and glued them back together. It was the greatest day of their lives.
* note: Red, who features prominently in these "Adventures," is Red Young Whore.
2) Pubic Public - Brochures - Blushing - Savage Groups
Sex worked at the Public Pubic Standards and Deviations Information Center (PPSDIC) where he had to deal with the public and all their questions and leaf through the brochures with them. Brochures filled with male and female genitals. Of all varieties.
And every time he works with a woman he wonders if she's thinking "this one's a house-mouse cock for sure!" And every time he flips to the pages featuring the characteristics and behaviors and variations and peccadillos and diet and musical tastes and exercise regimens and big flat glossy close-up shots of the House-Mouse Cock he blushes and knows he's betrayed completely. She looks calm, he thinks, a bit shy, perhaps, but inside she is laughing. Laughing uncontrollably. O, poor Sex!
And passing women on the street he knows why they smile and giggle and point and why they gather into savage leering groups:
Behold the House-Mouse Cock ! The House-Mouse Cock !
3) Consultancy - Compatibility - Infinite Blue
The Small House-Mouse Consultancy Co takes off. It goes public. Who knew! Franchises pop up everywhere. Like a rash. Who knew! And haters thumb their noses. And spit on Sex's tiny shoes.
Thousands of House-Mouse cock effigies are burned. The police do nothing. They sit on their hands and grin. The House-Mouse cock community's in mourning. It sags and sighs. And Sex sits in the middle of it sobbing.
But it heals: stronger and stiffer than ever! And with a huge spending appetite. The Small House-Mouse Consultancy Co surges and surges and surges. Even the haters and the burners secretly buy up stock. There's no stopping The Small House-Mouse Consultancy Co.
And Sex becomes filthy rich. Hundreds of private jets. Thousands of houses. Dozens of islands. A couple of galaxies. A taxi company in Arizon. Donut shops. "Mama Rosa" cell-phone cards. Light-bulbs. Crowbar factories. Flu-serums. But it's not enough. Sex is lonely. Needs a mate. A "pareja," as they say.
And, so, women wanting to be compatible flood in to their doctors and have their vaginas closed up to the breadth suitable for a House-Mouse Cock. Little do they know that just like the ocean's ecstatic little fishes, frolicking in its seemingly infinite blue, Sex adores a nice big cunt.
And, so, these women, snobbed, rush back to their doctors and demand to be widened, and widened, and widened and ever-widened into so many gaping seas in search of Sex's fame and fortune and cheap-jewelry and sundry accessories.
Some cunts beach up wider than their waists. Wider than an elephant's waist! Wider than a blue whale's waist! Wider than the waist of a black-hole's pull (it's huge wide suck)!
Sex revels in these new wet-starry and sometimes unstable universes.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
I'd Prefer
i'd prefer to tie you to a chair and beat you within an inch (or less) of yr life,....
prefer to nail you to a tree. drench you in honey. and start chanting the great fire ant hymn.
prefer to place you in water. everything but your head. and slowly freeze you.
prefer to make you make out with Sex Ableton. for hours.
prefer to have Sex read your poems.
prefer to have Sex brand his most heroic lines in to your buttocks-skin
(yawn)
prefer to have lunch with a rat who lives in a mole's asshole. (lives and feeds in the mole's digesting shit. this is where he plucks his poems. from the lining of the mole's anus.)
prefer to nail you to a tree. drench you in honey. and start chanting the great fire ant hymn.
prefer to place you in water. everything but your head. and slowly freeze you.
prefer to make you make out with Sex Ableton. for hours.
prefer to have Sex read your poems.
prefer to have Sex brand his most heroic lines in to your buttocks-skin
(yawn)
prefer to have lunch with a rat who lives in a mole's asshole. (lives and feeds in the mole's digesting shit. this is where he plucks his poems. from the lining of the mole's anus.)
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