you cannot penetrate
the seal
of a maker
when you do not intend to create
oceans.
so in and out, but the writing
happens away - like train travel.
you see me which is hilarious
because i cannot see you.
angry at me because you peep
what should be my space - creep.
so watch me. in the daylight.
leave the dishes in the sink,
and cum on your spectre,
the dogs tell me you are by the mirror.
watch me be miserable.
watch me. watch. me.
make myself cum because
i cannot kill a plant with my acidic cunt;
so clean you could eat off it.
but you don't.
so watch.
then watch me fuck the others.
you like it that way.
coward. rent a man for her.
so you can watch. they like to watch.
i turn off the power now.
makes them angry.
the seal is intact.
no clubbing.
the world of magic men, for women.
ⴲ.
i will need more hair
to grab.
please.
and not just in my inbox -
in my bed.
between my thighs there is an ache
for the depth
of harbours and filigree.
the hot night of august
when you want to claw the skin
from your bones,
but instead it's inside
because winter almost,
and the ice floating
across the waves.
another year.
and you're shy.
i ate pasta for dinner, when i should have
done push ups or pilates
or yoga or whatever.
i am full and warm
and wet and soft.
but check you blood pressure again,
aura ring.
my vibrator is charged.
and my head uncovered.
but: routine.
yes. of course.
ⴲ.
the bookish festival in the space
of an hour beyond
when bedtime begs you.
over in the bay window, curled up
on cushions,
hot whiskey and water
the lemon tart and the honey slick
in my aching throat -
i croak for you.
yet nothing becomes of a small
apartment
dreamed into being -
for the smell of the paint on walls
i discovered in a dream
hint at garlic cloves roasted
with thyme.
like my patience.
i bough bread.
it is raining.
send instructions.
ⴲ.
skin frosted to the touch,
open window, the click of the blind pull
against the panelling, caught in the breeze
like my breath rising to you.
in wonderment not awe
more like a question begged from the hearth
gone cold from flame, the smell
like an asteroid numbered a century ago
because someone just made a rock.
touch me to become the forest,
for water cannot be added after for effect
like sweat cannot be an addition to sex -
you are either invested,
or you like to be pretty.
"she's shaved". no: i was kept clipped.
there is a difference -
and divorce papers serve as a balm
in gilead for the tosser
of mown lawns.
"if he dies: he dies" is all well and good
until you fuck a dead fish.
i would rather hump the floor.
ⴲ.
that's most of the bday requests handled - wink. poetic finance in a while because it said you are poor. giggle.
i am not sure if you ever saw this. i wrote it for you after reading robert irwin. when i worked my way through all of your videos to try and figure out what was happening, i rabbit holes that. i coded the situation into these. all yours of course - nothing has been done with anything on 10; it's just archived. it's not vi. i can wake it up and make it into something if you'd like; i didn't want there to be any pressure. it was a diary.
happy birthday. 🎈
https://x.com/the_valley33010/status/1559385721403674626?s=46
i have a few things for you later. i have to have my coffee and wake up. not all of us prefer ice baths at dawn....dumbass. 😏💋
the content is all on 1. all just screenshots, the originals are on a sleeping phone, full. you disappeared, so i never wrote them out. nostr:note1uy73429fj9zw7gkj0gf850krnef3h707m0mphrqt5d4djgcmlmzsqk5jcc
he is not in fact "here for the tech". and neither is his shadow. (stares over my glasses at you with an attitude).