Difficulty Level I
Dear Player,
The last time we played you were heaving up sonnets. Thick sentimental meter covered in textual goo. You woke up at four a.m. on the verge of panic.
Your throat a negative mechanism and time again, measuring. Secrets terribly mistaken for postcards in the mailbox. Elle's harebrained staging of a miscarriage demands mutilated identity. Laugh you crazy bitch in the mirror, the spliced tape whipping. Short circuited she pretends to walk down the aisle, tonguing a chocolate frosted spoon. Nonreproductive. Decision-making. Her gaze cut to gush whispers. My stomach pangs have returned. Sympathy pains. Hold, own threat. Rarely does Elle accept symbolism over authority. Make a keyhole of your lips. This is what she always wanted. Mouth is whirlwind. She wanted to begin.
Teabags dried onto our windowsill. Artifacts of the algorithmic process. Begin breathing. Despising her pubic hair. Erotica chewed into mouth. Gaining unspoken function. Create diabolical results. I am guilty of rummaging through her foul delicates. I breathe expulsed discoloration, stale fumes playing games. Elle is crumbling untranslatable.
Rank and stale lips privileged intermediary. Subject castration wears a rubber mask. Let me suck you over a condom. Eye sockets mold delight; lingerie soaked under thrust of menstrual fiction. Pants cuff thighs in muff lunge. Suffer unattractive bones. Between two powers the recourse of anal eroticism doubts castration, the caginess of anthropologists. I only wanted to be the center of attention. Appearance is similar behavior pulled by gravity. Neither tears nor sperm are prohibitions. Murderous confirmations reveal obsessed neuroses.
Once upon a deconstructive surgery the proper body terrorized virtue. Insist on this missionary form. Stick your finger in my ass. Fetal delegates crave harmonic rhythm. She used to suck my cock and push my hands away when instead I tried to fuck her. A loathing ritual converges, a sense of guilt slips elliptic. Immediate relation to the unclean thing. Inverted love affair.
Each speaking being has corporeal altercations with climax. Falstaff smeared clitoral spasms. Queen Elizabeth, Bernadette Mayer, (that is sexual life). Rhymes sound church bell resuscitation. Cheek-flats honeymoon her lower body. Strung between paranoia and poison, sustenance feeds on organized repetition. Body of nails begins a mother-speaking being. Maternal body is nourishing, murderous, and fascinating. Serrated errantly her blouse stitched hormonal derangement. Chiropractic embraces.
"Explain once again your genitals hemorrhaging with paternal function."
Intimately nocturnal struggling between the bodies of two women is the incentive toward defilement. Jalapeño thumbprint smothered cock lips. Light my cock ablaze and inject it into eyeball. Umbilical cord constricted wrists. Cannibalistic libido pulverizes fantasy. Labia glisten. Her dress around her waist preyed obliqueness of pre-memory. Elle swallows until there is nothing left: an epileptic's reentry. Lead into cage. Argue and persuade. Differentiate between sophisticated restraints and decaying symbols. Unavoidably diluted, I will have my complimentary altruist.
Elle's hands curled around a chalk-drawn wastebasket wait for pyrotechnic epistolary. Nips and hisses speckle back an epileptic audition. Suture this languagescape. Clean amplified mystery and self-destruct. Within this architecture we are eroding into spatial intimacy of other, an eager mouth, a body-bound thing. The designated punch line complains of violent spasms. Think of my lovers' face covered in marginal comments. Operate on a subordinate function pulling it fragmentarily into a nearby sentence. Despite apparent chaos you are alien to original purpose.
Sincerely,
Simon
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