to death and you lie still and groan because you owe him and he
fucking bites you near to death, between yr legs, yr clitoris, he fucking bites and bites, then he wants breakfast, so once you been through it enough, enough is enough.
ah, you say, so this explains it, whores hate men because whores
see the worst, what would a whore be doing with the best, but the
truth is that a whore does the worst with the best, the best undress
and reduce to worse than the rest, besides, all women are whores and
thats a fact, at least all women with more than $11. 14 in the bank,
me too. shit, I should tell you what I did to get the $11. 14. nothing
wrong with being a whore, nothing wrong with working in a sweatshop. nothing wrong with picking cotton, nothing wrong with nothing.
I like the books these jerko boys write. I mean, and get paid for. its
interesting, capital, labor, exploitation, tomes, volumes, journals,
essays, analyses, all they fucking have to do is stop trading in female
ass. apparently its easier to write books, it gives someone like me a
choice, laugh to death or starve to death. Ive always been pro choice,
the ladies are very impressed with those books, its a question of
physical coordination, some people can read and wiggle ass simultaneously. ambidextrous.
so now Im waiting and thinking. Anne Frank and Sylvia Plath leap
to mind, they both knew Nazis when they saw them, at some point,
there were a lot of ass wigglers in the general population around
them wiggling ass while ovens filled and emptied, wiggling ass while
heroes goosestepped or wrote poetry, wiggling ass while women,
those old fashioned women who did nothing but hope or despair,
died, this new woman is dying too, of poverty and a broken heart, the
heart broken like fine china in an earthquake, the earth rocking and
shaking under the impact of all that goddam ass wiggling going off
like a million time bombs, an army of whores cannot fail—to die one
by one so that no one has to notice, meanwhile one sad old whore
who stopped liking it has a heart first cracked then broken by the
ladies who wiggle while they work.
the wild cherries of lust
(for Orisis)
bertha schneider had once been a woman and was now an androgyne. as a woman she had lain for 8 years on her back with her legs open as the multitudes passed by leaving gifts of sperm and spit,
now as an androgyne her legs were still open but at the same time
they ran, jumped, swam, stood up, skipped, and squatted, her
mouth was also open and what nestled there with restless fervor also
found its way to her armpits, under and between her breasts, to the
creases in her neck, to the small of her back as well as the bend of
her elbow, not to mention where the bend of her elbow often found
itself.
bertha had passed 2 years of celibacy before becoming an androgyne. she had fucked during that time in much the way vegetarians eat hamburgers—sometimes and not proudly, yes, she
had been fucked and gutted and ransacked occasionally by sweet
young boys who lived on street comers, yes, she had sucked the cunts
of brilliant, strong, and worthy women with abandon and no small
measure of delight, but all the while she had dreamed herself celibate and had even imagined that she was a virgin again as she once had been—only this time in spirit as well as in body, on purpose instead of by accident.
bertha had changed much in her one short life, as a woman she
