Her ironic submissive demand requires I finger-fist-fuck her third-eye, ajna chakra. The tiny fist is an iron clench in a velvet glove on the tip of my right middle finger.
Delicate molecular adjustments are made with the iron finger-fist in the velvet glove, falconer ethericized to feather her imaginal cortical cumquake convulsions.
Her eyes roll back in her head, eyelids fluttering like a hummingbird, as the first wave of soul-mind orgasms tsunamis her swoon to prayed-for ob-liv-ion resurrection.
When her budding cherry nipples blossom yearning fire, I flick her breasts with a mini-cat-o-nine-tails made from the gut of an albino jaguar. EO's into the ozone of ecstatic extinction.
The inner g-spot/clit nexus is where her dreams, sense of self, flux of fuck, converge on a rising wave of evolutionary psychophysics.
The mystery of feather-finger-fist mindfuck submission bonds us through the eons of every moment.
EO's been in "Walk-In. . .Pt. 1” as an interdim alien sex host.
She cums continuously for the Zon muster out of pure midnight sun devotion.
The auto-brainwashed writhers of perpetual apocalypse wait in the green room. Only antichrist blood-soaked cross nails massage the masochists of pale mythos moaning in voodoo vivisected agonic ecstasy, orgasmo-death for yesterday's story lines.
When EO passes out again, her body still twitching with orgone endorphin jolts, all the pussies in a ring around her "Meow meow meow meow" in a polyphony of desperate fuck-hunger ranges.
This ring is old-school, no nanotech-enhanced neuro-sizzle slutz.
Here the firecrackers explode continuously from the field of psi-energy.
EO's pulsing affective-mind ground is the palm of my warm rounded crooks and crannies.
The control arrived via autopoesis.
The pussies in the circle are purrring with the cream of kindness jetting in their petulant strawberry mouths. Soon they are all titanium-silk bound to silver hoops suspended from the hi-beams yonder, Zon zoons dripping from their luscious lips.
The jizz's psychotropic properties overdrive the pussies into soft cum-a-cum-a-cum-c'mon's while moonlight impregnates their pulsing throats.
EO is designing a nano-materializer to render money extinct. You can make anything you need; grow a house. Make it hover above the brigandry of land ownership. Vaporize piss-ant objections. Seeing the way to free humankind from second-hand lives makes her cum harder.
Then riding the crest of that quim-quivering wave, her brain-mind bulletins brilliant bio-rhythmically enhanced conclusions re nuanced nuggets of nanotech knowledge.
So when I mini-fist her ajna chakra, it's a full-felt bodily punceptual joyride. Iron velvet swoons her genius as the flaming falcon cum-cries.
Advanced orgasmic orgone conclusions fuel the age of liberated materializations.
We commune in the twilight of Machiavelli.
Chaosmos whorls vorticorps.
Redreaming cultural formations occupies our days.
Advanced orgasmotronics produces more supple pretzel logics. As per Kathy Acker riding her vibrator, then writing from the point of orgasm. Rhythmic rhetorical convulsions ensue.
>>>
Taste-touch-smell-see-hear. Feelings/Sensations/Thoughts/Intuition. Audio-visual-conceptual-transparency.
Being more about esoteric-exoteric templature, the tics and shallows of casual [contagious] [mis]fortune are bypassed.
Zon Booty-ism meets the meaning needs of quivering, yearning firmament/fundament fevers.
>>>
Sit, stand, don't wobble -- in Feeling, Sensation, Desire, Thought, Intuition, Imagination.
All the trouble starts with dithery-do.
The razor's edge is Mind itself.
"I" "am" is as mysterious as "God."
Markers of the infinite awe equal Heart.
>>>
The Zon muster sits on a tortoise, which is sitting on a tortoise, which is sitting on a tortoise, which is sitting on a tortoise. . .Delicately balanced where the air is thin, he observes his earnest students sitting on their single tortoises. When the tortoises weary of being meditation seats, the soup kitchen and guitar pick makers wait expectantly.
Old-school rascal realizers used sticks of various wood stocks for the well-timed whack! delivered to wandering attentions. Now high on his Everest of tortoises, out of ordinary reach of waverers, he relies on a modified cattle prod to send his electrical arc of certain sizzling a la Merlin wand to the stoic students caught snoozing, dithering, wandering, or trembling on their single tortoise seats.
On a lightning whim the group is dismissed to Galapagos.
>>>
“How do we market this? Troubled econo times don’t care about pomo fiction, poetics, cognitive integrity. Flush econo times don’t care about these factors either. Pulp has some currency, particularly via moviedom. So. . .?”
“Reality-ism.”
“Or miraculous mindfuck heartsong.”
>>>
Dispatch to a honeyed heart: Master, muster, child; solar power, rain of tears on an infinite sea. I long for your full-nurturing caress and your 19th trembling cumburst. I am the song at your campfire, protector of your roseate garden heart. Find me in your dreams. Fly to me two-fold, soul sheath shining, and onboard big metal wings. This briskness is your quickened breath. The Lord of sudden Mystery moves my fingers. Adoration of your open quivering womb pumps the blood flow of my wide-eyed days. The midnight sun incandesces this yearning lover's molten oceanic bliss. Your melting heart's embrace is my purrrfect prayer.
>>>
After wholesale schmoozing of wet pussy power, all that remained was to appear on Okrah with the big pitch for the forthcoming “The Noir of Pow(!).”
-- So you call your fickle finger yogic pornosophy? Aren’t you objectifying women?
-- Aren’t we all enigmatic objects in Consciousness? Ask my enthusiastic brood if they love their activities. Everyone knows the so-call sub grounds the lightning and subliminally summons the muster.
-- Why do you call your frequently pornosophic text “scripture”?
-- Psychosexual or otherwise, its tonalities from the Beyond.
-- What about smiting the infidel, and such Big Daddy-o signatures of old-school Godmanship?
-- Sure. C’mere.
-- Ha. And the milk of human kindness and divine compassion?
-- Is implicit in the mustering of mastery and Mystery.
>>>
Kosmic absurdism becomes an ethical imperative. Da-krunched Barthelme, Robbins, Vonnegut, Rinzai, Dom/sub, surrealism, Marx Bros., Euro Theater of the Absurd. . .The yin to this yang is found in tender mercy’s warm embrace.
“The Noir of Pow(!)” is the mood chiaroscuro of kick-ass crazy wisdom.
>>>
Mob Gnarly sings his psalms.
Even the lead heart of sorrow melts before Attention’s golden caress.
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