Monday, July 31, 2017

Felino A. Soriano, from Sedentary Fathoms

Ark of the Covenant, image by Daniel Y. Harris 

from Sedentary Fathoms

Sedentary Fathoms
                              |section eighty-four|

   Alone, I said what I needed: breath
  buried within speech            within speckled adulation.  As
                                      you arrived my
          curled in
   -to an ornate rendition of abbreviated
 hearsay: your knowing cannot
  what my closed mouth, though
    filled with the jazz of a dragonfly’s abscond¾

               wondering of a deity’s circular affirmation


Sedentary Fathoms
                              |section eighty-five|

      Incinerated noise,
  return of an incomplete ghost-,
   mine, or what isn’t yet
         fully my skeletal-history

Sedentary Fathoms
                              |section eighty-six|

   Granted access,
 we’ve done so to those
     following tongue-first, (taste-searching paradigm, eloping into elation)
  inward-interior fragmented
                         searching for
     full meaning in the context of unheard explosive acclimated whereabouts.  Silence
 holds my
  knowing, knows
      its persuasion pulses rhythms
   a jazz of tomorrow’s incompatible     solos

             particular brands of inertia have left our welcome

                                       left to consume
                     what’s burned in the lung of developed misinformation

Sedentary Fathoms
                              |section eighty-seven|

  Improvisational numerical order          improvised amounts in ornate contemplation

                    is the age       my father returns                             one year following fragrance of his unexpected absence, surname erasure left
    to ornate the writing my right hand uses to display my own generational


     soon my mirror will recognize me, again                   its radial syllables spelling
     focus onto what is meant when the
     dragonfly returns amid tamer turquoise
attire, softened, a flight-whisper ornamentation and
     the whole of my healing will delve into explanation,
                                                                                      philosophy of unimpeded identities

Sedentary Fathoms
                              |section eighty-eight|

  Older, we were
 ¾was it when the wind died
toward ground’s brown, unwat
 -ered signature?  We signed ourselves
    with surnames’ routine emphasis.  Recall the patterned interpretation of
               contoured     syllabic

                             Age is
            what accompanies us in a paralleling math; prose, too,
its synonyms found as we excavate
    last year’s meaning
   last mentioned during a death
         awareness of a hymnal reenactment

Sedentary Fathoms
                              |section eighty-nine|

   After what was left
 nothing spatial can
    ignite an eyeing rendition to
     configure improvised digestion, capable modalities of tonal continuity.  Trigger fallacy     tightened figments
                       ornate and subtle
                                   -crossing the good eye going gray     going unintended.

          Removed rhythms
     each wing a wounded syllable
            misspelling purpose and collocated reflections

Sedentary Fathoms
                              |section ninety|

  We name forms to __________.  Numerate
 their skeletal
           rhythms, the _______
    named first from
  hands’ foundational
                      shaping diagrams.  ________, thus
    guides and dislodges what
 an organic wind awakens to: _______,

        finding then in a later moment
      truth in an introspective fathom and

                           open avouchment

Sedentary Fathoms
                              |section ninety-one|

  As if it were to memorize me,
such illness discolored my fingertips my
    involvement with a faithful touch of language of layered pianoing.  Awakened now though I am,
 was it only for the months dedicated to an eye-chase of moths discovering
   pigmented nuances of this summer’s exterior normality     pluralized 

Sedentary Fathoms
                              |section ninety-two|

    But ending, why say it?  It? 
  Stated, this is what ornamentation means when allowed to December itself
       within a mirror of recollection and
  documented cliché.  When ending
                                  what uses an olden recovery tool: wound/heal/pink-rise(scar) philosophy intellect. 
                                              Said of the jazz earliest
come first, morning served, paused causal newborn elation, the smile sleeps only when the body expands and reconfigures the why of inventive beginnings

Sedentary Fathoms
                              |section ninety-three|

  Changes borderline     unsaved, stilled and
 uncomfortable amid this hour’s constant
     change toward advancing age, arch
-itectural knowledge. 

                                   Each piano around me splays tongue
                                 reaches my inward glare toward a mirror of
                                    reaction and accidental consequence.

         Said of my listening, what was wind
     my thinking yelled within the confines of silent
           breath holding paused hands.  Predetermined
       speech    the break of syllables
   arranging what time meant when stopping
         prior to death or the advent of a communicating
    behavior.  Language, desolate.  Longtime desire
                                  a neoteric stone halved in heaviness and the absence of tolerable commitment

 —Felino A. Soriano

Felino A. Soriano was awarded the 2017 erbacce-prize for poetry.  His writings appear in CHURN, BlazeVOX, 3:AM Magazine, The National Poetry Review, Small Po[r]tions, and elsewhere.  His books of poetry include Acclimated Recollections (2017),Vocal Apparitions: New & Selected Poems: 2012 – 2016 (2016), sparse anatomies of single antecedents (2015), Of isolated limning (2014), Pathos|particular invocation (2013), Of language|s| the rain speaks (2012), Intentions of Aligned Demarcations (2011), In Praise of Absolute Interpretation (2010), Construed Implications (2009), and Among the Interrogated (2008).  His collaborative collection Quintet Dialogues: translating introspection, which features visual art from David Allen Reed, is forthcoming from Howling Dog Press.

Visit Of the poetry this jazz portends for more information.  

Sunday, July 30, 2017

Irene Koronas, Excerpts from ninth iota

Devil Cock, image by Irene Koronas

Excerpts from ninth iota


syncretic creed
in pubic hood

cede plebs 

on demand

by stone finger

filial forms
fed on silt

from snip
quick apotheosis

hesiod 2

[1] absence

oral metric shroud
roots a single span

[2] whom embody greeks
[3] climatic suitors
[4] the hexameter

[5] period
[6] external source
[7][8] two extant sets

vivid long [9] texting
[10] bracket narrative

on in
rags remain

[12] eleven lesbos (c 630 c 570 b c)
respect [14] only
[15] additions to monadic

[16] red amphora costume held in full attribute
[17] question
[18] seven

[19] act
[20] three theban centers
[21] nineteen survive reproductions

[23] obscenity comedies
complete [24] poke fun at one
ridicule [25] high skill

[26] satyr popular
[27] bust first half

[28] his book 
[29] xenophon 411b c
[30] expel throne praise

[31] philosophy fifth and fourth
accurate least a vague approximation pressed
[32] scholars argue intent
expound own little 
figure the same name[33] debate

[34][35] purport to describe his trial
[36] execution

[37] love
[38] and deal
[41] stagira thinkers

[42] first metaphysic desire to know
those who present logic

international [43] million volumes born 295 bc  
[44] 13 year epigrams
[45] mimes hint at complete forms
[46] spent [47] influence on 38
[48] mathematics

906 have been lost to measure
the circumference written by archimedes
studied [49] reference frags

[50] [51][52] were probably late

the transition from shift to literary
or rhetorical inclination
all types continue to expand
criticism by hail

[53] saints
[54] probably lived
[55] left off
[56] where 
[57] paraphrase or early
[60] bust
[61] a friend in 146 vivid five through 20 parts

[62] from research
[63] consecrate
[64] mentor 
[65] publish other essays on [66]
[67] common anecdotes
[68] auto 
[69] animalium 
[70] (1485) anatomy for the next 1400 years

sketch in 47 volumes [71] 2nd century ad
[72] guides to ruin accuracy

Ptolemy [73] font
[74] a notion
[75] dominate astro
[76] replace
[77] stoics

consider [78] in spite
[79] reform quality
[80] periods
[81] enneads
[82] from compose
[83] dig
[84] fig
[85] second
[86] satirist 
[87] faux dialect
[88] novel
[89] transfer [90] [91] as lovers of lies
[92] a version of [93]
[94] unknown [95]

(1912) pp vii kinematic perspective
(1954, 1968) p3 2006 197ff note 64
3836 holds nearer 120 than 150
2011 p309 n29 9780199292011 use (albeit mid and erratic)
2010 p7 9780199803033 (1987) 0-8014-1874-7 (1985) volume1
(2007) black well universe (1981) from homer to often

hesiod 3

(left below)

 1   muse
 2   cosmogony
 3   castration
 4   by
 5   sea
 6   beast
 7   the tits
 8   hymn
 9   cronus
10  prometheus
11  titanomachy
12  raphy
13  us
14  open
15  dress and then

let us mount 
broad in thick hold

rod sturdy
they lip her round briny

either side haunts
or lust bolts

[fifty heads strong]

—Irene Koronas

Saturday, July 29, 2017

Fusiform Gyrus, Cuckserv

Dr. Macranthropos’ Hypostasis, image by Daniel Y. Harris


Aporiac skittles,
baphometic eyes,
horny atoms,
helix-spined colonies
give flack on
the back of a neutered
fungal address
a swift bris
for his golden hue.

—Fusiform Gyrus

Monday, July 17, 2017

Daniel Y. Harris and Rupert M. Loydell, excerpts from The Co-ordinates of Doubt

V is for Valley, Mixed Media on Card, image by Rupert M. Loydell 

excerpts from The Co-ordinates of Doubt


It took forever to clean the city of glass. We could never look out through the smears and dirt, the sun bedazzled us as it refracted through the walls. Some stuck paper and blankets to the roofs and sides of their house, others etched softening textures into the glazing. When the mountain fell into our world we did not see it coming. Our world lay splintered and beautiful, green ice in the cold light that showed us how foolish we had been to build with beauty and clarity in mind.

We left the city and built another, with discarded stone and coal black pitch; learnt to live at night and look the other way.


The casement window was empty, the sky blank, the air, tepid, still and mouldy. Above, omen to no one but the stench of the void, Phillip J. Jackdaw, oligarch of a master race of black crows, is counting in preparation for his mid-air joust. Later, he will bait fish with breadcrumbs, plucking, smoothing, and bending twigs and grass stems to procure a variety of foodstuffs.

This was the era of post-apocalypse, the backwash of a pulverized eschatology empty of people. Phillip J. Jackdaw knew no people. His oligarchy wasn’t a meld of Morrigan, Bran the Blessed, Huginn and Muninn and Chaldean.

A gunshot. Phillip J. Jackdaw was blown to bits. He was wrong.


I have lost my sense of direction and am navigating by the way the leaves fall and the smell of rain in the air. A black feather is tucked in my hat; I have a stout branch as a kind of walking stick and weapon. I have no need for either: I am too poor to be robbed, too frail to start a fight.

In the past I would map out my route along with a tentative timetable, plan out my day’s journey, its stops and starts, meal breaks and permissible breaks. Now I frog march myself across the border, in a ridiculous urgency, a haphazard attempt to get there before I do.

I want to travel into the future, and make sure I am dead. Walk over my grave and make myself shiver.


Malcolm Moll’s yotta is the largest unit prefix, 1024 or a mere 100,000,000,000,000,000,0000,000 or more precisely a septillion, as septillion bytes. He was born in 1991, the year septillion became a word. Malcolm’s mother, Guinevere Moll, read him The Cask of Amontillado from the day he was born until his 21st birthday, when Malcolm vanished on December 3rd, 2012.

The Federal Bureau of Missing Persons kept their daily investigations for Malcolm open through November 2013, when they decided to gradually taper back to weekly. It is expected that Malcolm’s case will soon grow cold and be subject to archive.

In the night sky, an active galactic nucleus emits infrared, ultra-violet and gamma ray wavebands. It’s a host galaxy, bleeding light. It blinks. 


There is none. Not here. Everyone scurries about in half-hysteria waiting for the next one of them to implode. Streets are oblique. Suspicion looms. Not everyone’s human.

Alive, certainly, like the stench of rooting flesh, but human? Doubts remain. Was Roxanne still human? Roxanne, that ectomorph with the possum nose, the one they called Gidget-the-Broom, was she still one of us? Who are we?

We are the ones that run Morphine with Midazolam added in syringe pumps; 50mgs Morphine made up to 50mls using Normal Saline (1mg/ml). We titrate and purge prognosis. We give Fentanyl and add it to the drip chamber. We use a PCA machine on an epidural machine. We stop sedation at 8am.


Our songs slipping into the aether are like a frozen waterfall which does not quench thirst, only scars the mouth, gives a burning wound.

I cannot bring myself to eat or drink, let alone listen to fortune telling or predictions.

This white mausoleum cannot contain my memories.

Inside my head songs reverberate and echo. My tongue does not want to know, is swollen with loss and thirst. I cannot recall the taste of fog.

Face half in shadow I sleepwalk through drought toward feverish silence.

Further downstream the river empties out until spring’s thaw.

Listen out for a drip or faint crack.


Is-is the in-in of never-nether with or without some tisk-task around which-switch and in-in connection-confection with-with witch-which it can alone-atone exist-exit.

When this-this work is-is finished-furnished, that is-is to say, when the aim-maim set before it-it has been-bean accomplished-accomplice, the third half disappears-disrepairs, that is-is, it-it disappears-disrepute from the given place-mace, disappears-dissipates in its given form-foam, continuing perhaps-mishap in another place-lace in another form-born.

Schools-mules of the third half exist-enlist for the needs-weeds of the work-stork which-ditch are being-reeling carried-buried out in connection-projection with the proposed-imposed undertaking-undertaker. They never-river exist-remix by themselves as schools-ghouls for the purpose-porpoise of education-malformation and instruction-resumption.

  — Daniel Y. Harris and Rupert M. Loydell

Thursday, July 13, 2017


Untitled, image by Bas de Gids 


it is unbelievably hot and the forth, fifth, in a series of heatwaves
the extreme amplitudinous amassments we shall now, henceforth,
call “climatelessness” while in the emotional athmospheres it is as
it was: the incessant tribulations and capriciocities en haute voltage

the heat has been shut off with curtains and has been moved with
the ventilator as it has been invited with open rooms and doors for
a sense of 'fresh air' but the openings again, shut off with curtains
and carefully placed linens to prevent mosquito's coming swarming

let them swarm outside where there is lesser and lesser presence
of either the insectoid as aviary as mammalian animals except for
humanity of course which in its whole quadruples every X hereby
satiating the market of liveability and even the plants took offense

this biodiverse artificial shifting is due to the ‘climatelessness’ adrift
as southern zoology and botany comes north yet it goes even further:
airtraveling all littler and more embonpoint sightlier are organisms
the world over morphs ecology in disecology shadowing dispolitics

the politics of the toddlers shall be overshadowed by climatechange
and exiting worldprogrammes shall not be beneficial for neither an
elongated toddler or prop-blow-nylon doll with tuft of pubic hair on
his hilarious head morphed both by as constituting climatelessness

the public sphere then emptied out by what originated these lands
zoosophisticated and botanical imminent wisdombearers gone wind
wise the public sphere annexated by public and streetfurniture with
rims of miles and miles of freeways as roads to the dystope acenters


the, Shelley, Byron, Rimbaud, Whitman, Dickinson, Colette, Carole King,
search for beauty, Sappho, seems an eternal one and what did they to keep
society out or incorporated it as to paralyse its ugly features, under which
narcotic spell were they that they suceeded to let beauty prevail a frail veil

on parchment papyrus paper on the screen we see signs, Li Po also Lao Tse,
which each cradle a designation to something in world and time, and these
linguistic characteristics immediately start to imminently ferment the words
by the words;characters in calligraphic slidings,coptic design density/dented

seeking nitro beauty at the precious dentistry instrumentaria deck / dock all
suffused in anxiety to the drill to the molar, the thrill of clac clac (occlusion)
and hydrophobe waxens to take a bite out to acquire new dents new signs of
health or, and, getting older. the coptic cake consumed with fervor and taste

how do we capture that breeze toothpaste smile is this a breeze of beauty of
now or has artificiality annexed our space of life robbed us from the bees do
we develop artificial honey with the same viscosity with oversweet pumped
tits silicone taste to at least have the feeling of ecology and art Brasilia-ish

this morning at 5am I stood in the kitchen and heard the growl of the traffic
of this, in fact, 200 million city (see global nightmap below) while I took my
12 items of medication and there was a kind of rainy beauty in this the grass
happier after the draughts: rhizomes under the earth as much thriving above

—Aad de Gids

Friday, July 7, 2017

Andrew Darlington, TONGUESMITH

Andy Gasmask Treated by Pris, image by Pris Campbell


I am Tonguesmith. Created for pleasure.

My mother was a hippie, who dropped a lot of lysergic acid. And other strange narcotics with mystical properties. The psilocybin William S Burroughs grail-quested through Amazonia to find, but could never discover. My father was the electric Folk-Rock group she groupied for on tour. Multiply, or in sequence. Or maybe it was the sizzle of radioactive fallout drifting in from the Yucca Flats nuclear tests. Absorbing into cellular DNA, corrupting chromosomes, innovating, bending gene-structures into new unfamiliar shapes. My favourite book as a child was HG Wells ‘The Island Of Dr Moreau’, about vivisection experiments splicing human and beast.

I’ve learned to coil my tongue like a Swiss Roll into the back of my throat. My teeth don’t meet, and it gives my face an elongated appearance, but it does mean I can pass in a crowd without notice. I have an anteater tongue, or maybe a frog tongue. A chameleon or pangolin tongue. I research it. An anteater tongue is sixty centimetres which enables it to devour 30,000 termites a day, but is as thin as spaghetti. Mine is normal in every respect, but for length. When other kids strive to tongue-tip touch their noses, I can comfortably lick my forehead. At puberty, while other boys are masturbating, I can reach down and encircle cock and balls in my tongue’s moist coils and bring myself to deliriously intense climax.

I am Tonguesmith. A life filled with strangeness. Stick-slim and awkward, a freakish biological misfit, shunned and ridiculed. My mother cares, after a fashion, but she has her life, her job at the Diner, her guys – a succession of sleazy sleep-over ‘uncles’. I’m a scaredy-cat, escaping from tormentors into the woods, beside the lake, I crouch down, watch the bullfrogs and imitate their passive eye-bulging squat. Waiting for that flick-flick-flick tongue-flick that unites us, croaking in unison. It’s then I see the travelling carnival in the glade beyond, something wicked this way coming. On a gipsy trail from the east. Beguiled and drawn towards the circle of ornate caravans and bright sideshow cars beneath the lilac trees, by dancers in black with ghost-white faces and coats slashed into strips that flair like dark feathers as they move. Dr Dark Electrico, Barker and Ring-Master notices me and beckons, he’s intrigued by my talent, and abilities. He sees my potential. Alongside the Bearded Lady, the Human Skeleton, Danny Longlegs, the Stork Woman, Flexi-Girl and the Living Torso, I discover my first role, welcomed into a close-community of oddments and outcasts.

The dancers spin beneath a huge moon around the roaring bonfire. In the caravan, Dr Dark observes me critically, cosmetic changes must be made, the punters expect spectacle. Standing nervously naked as Olga, the Bearded Lady carefully shaves my scalp, then my body-hair, removing every last follicle. Then Dr Dark applies green body make-up, tensing, skin-crawling as he carefully cups my ball-sac, the better to paint my inner thighs. And I’m reborn as Lizard Boy.

At first wary and ill at ease. We travel from town to town, drawing up in a festive circle. The white-face dancers in black prance and gyrate, the town-folk gather to gawp and snigger in awe and prurient curiosity. I sit inside a cage as they file past to goggle. Dr Dark Electrico has the idea of a concealed roustabout lowering a raisin on the slenderest of invisible lines, so I flick my tongue the full cage-length to retrieve it, as a lizard captures a fly. The punters love it, takings are good. I settle into my new life as Dr Dark’s Carnival spirals downstate through the Louisiana bayou’s. Ibis and egrets, paddlefish, terrapins and tree-frogs.

Flexi-Girl flexes boneless limbs, her pale skin so soft, her eyes twin stars aglitter, her mutant abilities allow her contortions that leave me breathless. We, who are thieves and vagabonds living on the periphery of normality. ‘We are outlaws in the eyes of America’ she confides. ‘Always different. My personal criminal history begins as a little girl eager to learn the magic of sleight-of-hand prestidigitation, but growing up to appreciate the power of flexi-nimble and dexterous fingers. Soon finding I’m equally aroused having my fingers in a pocket or around a cock, and sometimes in a pussy. After rehearsing pickpocket skills on a specially-dressed mannequin, I move on to living targets, namely boys in my school. I take artful pride in my ability to completely fool them, using beguiling beauty as a distraction to stealthily dip and lift their wallets, watches, phones, neck chains and even rings. I gloat over their strewn stolen stuff on my pillow as I lie in bed masturbating furiously. The idea that the fingers pleasuring me now are the same digits doing that nimble work always tips me over the edge. Into full-on kleptophilia! Jean Genet was an erotic vagabond and petty-thief too, dexterously skilled with the Artful Todger. Old Bull Lee rolled drunks on the subway. Once while working a rube in a crowded tube, I mistake the bulge in his front pocket for his phone, they’re bulky back then, but it was his hard cock! By then I can’t stop what I’m doing and end up giving this guy a hand-job in his pants. He never saw my face, but I still remember the naughtiness I felt that day. Touch is a hugely underrated aspect of sex. The tactile senses, fingers or tongue on cock or pussy are such a slow and indulgent ecstasy to be enjoyed for their sheer sensuality, as distinct from the pure rawness of the straight fuck. Bodies should be adored and pleasured in a mutual orgy of the senses. I'm certain that guy in the crowded subway loved every minute of my discrete hand-job, and still gets pleasurable erections just from the memory. The orgasm would be well-worth the picked-pocket. From then on, I divide my sticky-fingered skills pleasurably between pockets and cocks…’ I’m intrigued, fascinated, hypnotised by her.

That same night we set out from the circle of caravans. She’d noticed an old colonial house set some way back from the highway, ripe for furtive plunder. The winding shingle driveway is dark, overhung with trees ghosted in Spanish moss. Bats circle across the huge white moon. A house in darkness. She has ways, techniques of gaining access. Shrinking and elongating her body in ways no-one else could. A haunted twilight inside, as spookily humid as flesh. A hall clock set in a wrought-gold sun, its hands are warning me, the minute hand spinning in reverse, the hour hand racing forwards. I’m on the cusp of possibility, go on or go back. I look away and look back real fast, hoping to catch it off-guard, but it’s still doing its cartoon thing.

She leads the way upstairs, pacing step by step. I follow. Her eyes are crystal cut-glass gem-stones. If I think about what I’m doing, I’ll screw up, so just flow with events, follow her, become part of the moment and everything will be fine. It’s the very moment we set foot on the landing that the lights abruptly flare up, and there’s a figure brandishing a Civil War blunderbuss loaded with buckshot… startled, Flexi steps backwards, collides, and I lose my footing, slithering, then pitching over and back down, hitting each step on the way. Into a blackness as dark as midnight.

I am Tonguesmith. Created for pleasure. When I wake my head is pulsing, I’m naked, lying spread-eagled on cool silk coverlets on a four-poster bed, my wrists and ankles fastened to the bedposts. I struggle, but they’re secure. As my skewed vision adjusts I become aware of eyes on me. Three women. Three middle-aged well-fleshed matrons. I now know them to be Sister Rosa, Miss Ebony, and Madame Thirstquench. They are my new owners. I am in their power. Miss Ebony sponges my forehead where there’s matted blood from my fall. Her touch is gently possessive. Sister Rosa spoons me rich broth, when it trickles down my chin she uses the spoon to scoop it back up to my lips. Noting the deformity of my tongue, uncoiling it to its full not-inconsiderable length. Something obscenely suggestive about the way she does it. Madame Thirstquench puts a big vinyl record on the radiogram, and the room fills with low dancing Cajun music.

They tell me Flexi has long gone. Escaped into the night. No-one will miss me. No-one will report me missing. But don’t worry, I’m safe here, with them, they’ll care for me, they’ll look after my every need. The three ladies live together. They whisper to each other, pointing and sniggering. They leave me alone, and I sleep. Slipping into a realm of restless dreams. When I wake they stand around the bed. They’ve changed into loose night attire. Florid house-coats, gauzy negligee, see-through diaphanous. Yet creepily predatory in their stance.

And Sister Rosa sits on my face, straddling my shoulders, her full warm weight enveloping me, her legs clamping up the sides of my head, inching her body forward until the dense pubic growth and the moistness of her vagina lips slip over my compliant face, devouring me into that lush gaping convulsing pussy. I open my mouth to gasp, my tongue extends, extends and extends, flickering, probing, delving, lapping. She groans, moves her quivering thighs, riding me, fucking down onto me. My tongue extends, extends, extends, teasing the bud-morsel of clitoris, into her cunt-mouth, up and in, further, rubbing her g-spot, up to the cervix, further. She squeals and squirms, grinding herself down to meet me, quivers and cums around me. She slumps. I can’t breath. Drowning in her aroma, her fleshiness, the seeping wine-wetness of her.

I’m so painfully erect that I’m aching. As she raises herself, exhaling in a long satisfied sigh, Miss Ebony takes her place. Her vaginal juices are a narcotic on my palate, drinking her down, my lips and mouth slippery with secretions, my tongue finding its rightful place, thrusting, worshipping, adoring. As she’s pulsing, her spasming vulva ravenously hungry for me, an erotic convolvulus. Feeding it frog-tongue, lips, pangolin-tongue, mouth, chameleon-tongue, anteater-tongue, tongue-tip curling, wriggling, the flat of my tongue slurping, lathing. And then Madame Thirstquench, until I’m blind with roaring sensations and drunk on lust and cunt and flesh and need and desire. I’ve cum in long white strands up my stomach, tingling and awash in post-orgasmic oceans of calm. Breathing heavily. Sister Rosa clucks and tut-tuts, wiping my groin meticulously clean.

Weeks pass. My body is smoothly hairless. There’s a long intricately-wrought chain that encircles the base of my penis and nips around the scrotum above the testicles, its links extend and attach to the wall. So I can stand, move around the bedroom, but never leave the vicinity of the bed. I have books and TV with remote. Cajun music on the radiogram. Food when I need food. Wine when I need wine. And all the cunt my tongue will ever need.

I’ve found my place. I am Tonguesmith. Created for pleasure.

—Andrew Darlington