jueves, 30 de noviembre de 2023

Un capítulo de mi Winnegans Fake




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.


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