WHEN THE SHEET HITS THE FUN
It
is not easy to be the son of a witch and to try not enchantments. Did not Poe
try Poetry? To try, for insistence, to explain to a plain chaplain ‑a
catholitic converter, a pure specimen of poor spare semen‑ the past
(inexis)tense of God, to make him understand that purgatory is not to purge
tories, that sex o´cock is not a clockwork sin. Quite unsuccessfool! May be
that´s why they remain bachelors, far of dishcrepancies, free of frou-frous in
the beadroom. Oh Luperca Latouche, Lupita Lorette! However how fewtill, to
isolate ‑it´s so late‑ yourself, to live surrounded by a confort-knox,
permanently afraid of that American Subway of Life that finds the nectar of its
existence by sinning in the rain. Another West Sida Story? Ah, lice in
Wonderland! (by the away, if Gertrude is Stein is George Steiner?) Just a
riddle for post‑sexual intellectoids. As a matter of fuck, every body can fall
in law, one needing only to reach Klee‑Marxs with sex aids or to create a Lustwaffe
in an Inn Discret or to sponsor slogans like "Add vice advice".
Sooner or later the "Caucus-clan", on wigs of eagles, would react
against such a research of forbidding delights, delicts. Poor of you if you
have nor an alibi: A plural Belle. Sheep, sheep, hurray! They do not realize
the special brothelhood implicit in greetings like "Meet us in the meat
house" or the satisfaction caused 'cause an easy desease. See, they,
eternal teamagers, prefer to disguise Animal Firms as worldwild car manufacturers
‑a japandora´s box?‑, enjoy suffering nervous breakDowJones and, blast but not
bliss, are always ready to defence their fences even by fencing, humanizing
themselves only by kidnappying on Saturnday evenings. For when laws allow to
love mellow fellows, to love the law is to low the love. Oh poor supportears of
tea-totalitarism all ways playing hide & sex locked in lovatories instead
of flying to Bangcock for the wickend, there trotting along the PathPong and,
protected by the obscharity of a bar (Thai girls aglooming in the gloaming) ,
nervously ask ‑the tumble humble tremble‑ for a bloody massage. Oh, sex &
drags & roll´n the rocks! Or, invited to kissing sands, to lie low in a
ditch with a bitch, no speech, each peach of her at reach of lips, her tights wide
open as wings of butterflies. The butter flies? Last tongo in Paris! Finally,
if someone asking as king of clubs or lady of pricks, would like to know what´s
the purpoise of this nonsense of humor ‑meaningless inglés‑, I would answer:
Sir, I just intend to put together, to gather, a series of serious sexperiences
into a book, collected french letters under the title: "Le histoire d´un
fil de jeu de mots". Because sex is but many days, let it be orgone with
the wind.
Farewell, fair well.
