Defoliated MetArt nudes. Agent-oranged vaginas, pits. (Pits, slits. No zits.) Irradiated in a nuclear holocaust. Mutant. Polished. White smooth buttocks bellies beaked like squid. White with the fat of kidneys of wheat. Naked Heva. Orient and immortal. Pointed pubes, tonsured, razored, honed. Effective. Lethal-looking. Jules Verne’s Vingt Milles Lieues Sous les Mers. Beak, claw. Cheeked, cleft. Gill slit? Doe hoof? Gazelle toe. Impala. Chubby toe. Cloven-footed hind, sorel, tickles still the sore. Wounded hart. Doe-y, dewy. Slavic, sloe-eyed, Ukrainian, cornflower-blue, amber honey chestnut hazel umber rose. Periwinkles daisies. Russet downy temples cheekbones (not armpits). Dimples. Lots of dimples. Tender tips.
No “Zemblan mousepits” though. No tinder to light the fuse. Shredded tobacco falling from the snuffbox: none. Sneeze-proof. Hypo-allergenic. “Lush carpet of moss” strangled in the utterance. Fur defeated.
Or I could watch Tomboy-Chan shove ice-cubes up her ass. To divide my cyber-choices inventorially would dizzy the arithmatic of memory (and yet but yaw neither in respect of their quick sail). I feel so–connected.
Sweet innocent Russian girls with all their polymers buffed. Gangly-wristed adolescent devochkas. Dedicated, ready to be shot into space like teenage cosmonauts or hookers. (Verne’s aquanauts: beware.) 18 year-olds. 15 year-olds. 13? 12? Train ‘em young. Tin monkeys. Rumanian child-gymnasts. Eastern bloc. Hairless for smooth adhesion to control surfaces. Machine-body interface. Shiver-sensitive. Trembling technology. Space capsule Eros. Squeeze through the hatch. Grease the pig. Docking procedure. Wince and sing! Squeeling sex pilots for the twenty-first century. Guide you to your nut. (Release, quietus, satisfaction.) Emission control speaking. 10 seconds to jag-off. Shoot the moon.
Then grocery shopping. Counter girl. Puce nails. Cockroach-colored nails, painted. Glazed beetle-brick nails, dark-roasted honey-chocolate skin, dusty, lavender caked, livid wrists, palms. Smoky lips. Hands running my produce over the scanner. Ruby laser lines dissecting kale, plums. Over a glass darkly, floating fruit. Glass-paneled scale, inky pool filled with dark device. Weighed on the abyss. Found wanting.
Filled with dark device. You no like my Engrish? Your base are belong to us. English as she is spoke. Please would paper chuck in wastebin thank you! Passengers will please refrain from flushing toilets while the train is standing in the station I love you.
I paid their ransom, redeemed them from retail hell, ascended with them to glory on the far side of glass-shuttered gates.
Halleluia.
Safe home, I set off on my thrice-weekly cycling adventure in New Jersey. Returned by nightfall, vaulting the bridge on swift-footed Michelins, jaguar paws. (I am Jaguar Paw. This is my forest.) Suspension bridge over the abyss. Hudson River. Inky pool filled with. She was wearing her jewels tonight. She’s a beauty even if her name is George Washington.
Lustrous blue pearls she wears on summer evenings. Lotus blue. Topazes and tourmalines when the sun is setting.
Recipe for a dry martini: steep bottle of vodka two hours in the light of a vermouth-colored moon.
A rare beauty! Did I say her name is George Washington?
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