Doom Pussy #2, image by Jeff Bagato
Pussy Bomb/Earthquakes Bring Confusion
Jeff Bagato
Bombs Kill
My pussy is a bomb.
Bombs kill.
Detonate bombs…cocks run from city…three separate blasts…shrapnel flying successive explosions clouded with shoppers and diners…lifting people out of chairs…corpses lay shrouded in plastic…
Suffocating facts accrue…
This bomb is a jewel between my thighs.
A piece of a terrorist, his spinal cord, flies into an open shop.
My pussy a bomb, a jewel between my thighs. Capture immanent…deadly game…
If they chase me, I will follow…I will allow them to push me where they will, to the destination of their choice…the most crowded or most panicked or most valuable areas…let them choose the place of detonation and their death…pedestrian shopping mall…bank queue…hospital OR…afternoon airport…I will follow…my orders, I will fulfill this mission: I have charged myself to fulfill my mission. Fulfillment by magic, by violence, by crime, by sex, by ripping into myself to find the roots of myself, by destroying the creation of cocks within myself.
My pussy is a bomb.
The explosion is now.
Violence is a prayer with many answers, many aspects of its passion find a mark.
My pussy a jewel of violence within my thighs. Within my thighs.
Pussy moves out. Out across the plaza, through the shops and cafes. Bodies of corpses wrapped in plastic. Corpses of automobiles…burned out upholstery, melted enameling, water washed rusting steel…Corpses of buildings, hollowed out by fire, blackened skeletons gaping open on rubble and soot interiors. Corpses of market stalls, corpses in alley ways. Corpses of roads blocked off, pitted, clogged with debris.
This is not the end to civilization.
The end to civilization comes.
The end to civilization.
The end to civilization comes upon you with heavings and stretchings of the earth. The jewel between my thighs rises to shake off the weight of dead shopping, murderers, death fiends, soul blasphemers.
I am moving to end civilization.
Move to end civilization.
Move to end civilization.
Move out. Choke it off with its own rubbish. Destroy it with its own acids, its own bombs, its own good deeds of advancing machination.
Move out.
The jewel between my thighs moving.
(I feel a twitching within like magic. The muscles contract. Their will is to see the end to this civilization.)
Moving to end civilization.
The end to civilization comes.
Move out to end it.
Can I blaspheme enough against our civilization? My blasphemy a spell against the cocks, what they teach, what they take away.
Doom Pussy equation rising up—deliberate crime— blaspheming against the cock culture of murdering, of dying.
Blast against the murderers.
Blast against the cult of dying…cult of he who dies to live and die again. Those dying, self-righteous in their dying.
I never stop thinking about my mission. Even back at camp, off a run, in the bar, a drink cold in my hand—the mission scrolls before my eyes.
I whisper a spell for the murder of the murderers, light it to the fire of action with a sip of single malt scotch.
I’m on fire with the being of my time. I will not be swayed away from being into dying. Cock pressure to shake my reserve seconds into the counting pit…into the flames of cock hell…an eternity of dying…an eternity after dying…you don’t just die, you die forever in the cock universe; death there is a place you never escape.
I call for an eternity of living…an asymptote that edges away death with its own graphic eternity…Let the counting murderers count…Let them count successively smaller minutes of my living unto eternity…Let them follow my asymptotic living with black beady eyes greedy with the lust of death, watching for an asymptote to fall, waiting eternally for a death that never comes to me.
I push my asymptote along…one second fraction at a time.
My mind is in a chopper, on my mission, moving along that asymptote…
My Mission
Let it come…however it wishes…
Let it come let it come do what it wants you to do
making my body
writhe undulate orifice swallows and squeezes
his cock with a sensation that drives anything like this
here it comes
let it come
do you think it is coming?
do you feel it coming you?
let it come…unexpected…
as the cock pulls out of me
we are both fulfilled
presses smooth and warm and it is coming
it is coming
I think so
beginning to work in me
must frenzied possession nudity that thing remove
cushioned soul and body
breasts encompass her
on my throat he murmurs touches a soft moan
stroking between my labia
produces a soft moan
filling and orifice, sliding it into complete nudity
lie naked on the table anointed with perfumed oil
touch is pleasant joyous rounded
pushes the other one in however it wishes
contorted smooth and warm making
my cunt is dripping wet
playing with my clit at the same time
you assign me a fictitious name
mouth of my vagina nearly drives me out of my mind
playing with my clit at the same time
my cunt is dripping wet
glorious orgasms on the purple table
concentrate on this
The Wound Is Not Invisible
“D.P., you look like you need to relax!” Nails slaps a big hand between my shoulder blades, pressing into womanly softness. “Yeah, that feels good,” he seems to contemplate it, keeping his hand firm on my back, taking the stool next to mine at the bar and adjusting it under his big sweet man-ass, gesturing for two of what I’m having.
“Smash should show any minute now, then the party will really start. But first I need to get you prepped for it, looks like.”
“I’m okay, Nails. Thank you.”
“Bullshit! You get deeper and deeper into it with each run—and then deeper with each drink. What kind of pussy are you? It’s like you’re bringing those cocks back to roost in our own camp!”
I’ve never heard such harsh words from the gentle giant. “You’ve got me, Nails. I can’t ever let go of a mission. There’s always so much more I coulda done. Like tonight for instance…”
Nails holds up a big, rough, meaty palm. “Whoa! What kinda veteran are you? Doom Pussy? I’m lookin’ at nothing but a sacka shit! You gotta live the mission, not think about it. Never give the cocks a chance. Never blow your own cover. And never, never—NEVER—” he slaps his ham hand on my drinking arm as I’m lifting it— “Never kill a drink without a smile on your face! What are you—at your own funeral or something?”
I feel like back in boot camp. It’s a good feeling. It’s what I need to hear. The new shots arrive. I pull down the one in my hand.
Nails likes my ear to ear grimace. “Good girl. And now, the master…” He lifts his shot glass between thumb and forefinger stretched in a wide O, like pinching a big wad of chew, twirls and sniffs it, then pours it into a wide open war whoop of laughter.
“That’s a goddamned drink!”
I’m just reaching for my next shot when another big hand grabs the glass from behind me.
“Smash!”
“You don’t mind if I show this cur how it’s really done, do you ma’am? But I must borrow your glass, and the drink in it.”
I nod my assent. Smash proceeds to show us the spirit he is made of.
Holding the drink high, he turns to the barroom floor, adding a mighty rebel yell to his expansive gesture. Upon ascertaining that he has the immediate attention of every single patron, he lowers and then raises his glass in a swift movement that launches the translucent golden liquor into a rising column just over his head. Faceful of smile, he tilts his head back on his bull neck, opening wide. As the column of liquid rushes to the floor, it pulls itself together in an elongated tear drop. It comes down, and it smashes Smash on the bridge of his nose, splashes across his eyes, and cascades down his cheeks as he jerks the plane of his face back to its customarily vertical position. The bar crowd roars with laughter.
“You have outdone me,” Nails reaches out an arm to grab his old partner in a bear hug, gesturing with the other at the bartender for a round of three. “I concede victory to the better man.”
They stand there clutching, groping and teasing each other while the bar cheers. Here I am surrounded by big, jovial, single-minded man-ass. I desperately need another drink.
Earth Changes Coming
Most of the missions blend together, almost like one mission.
Flying a chopper is one of the purest things. In a chopper you’re more open, more exposed to the air. I’m free from the tyranny of the terrain. I can do anything I want, go anyplace I want—up, down, backward, sideways, shoot between the trees—incredible. That’s the first thing that hits you, the sense of freedom. You’ve conquered a force of nature—gravity. And your perception of the world is radically different. You’re up above, and you see. You’re not bound by roads. Every time I get in a Chinook it’s the same feeling. No matter how many missions I fly, every time we lift off its an emotional thing. Every time. I’m getting it right now, thinking about it.
Because you’ve got tandem rotors, you can twist right around on a central axis, and you’re a little bit faster. Great to fly. Two pilots and three crew.
I’m flashing on assaulting a village from the sea. Take six gunships, six slicks—nongunship Hueys—and three Chinooks, load ‘em with pussy, and go in. We take off at dusk and go out to sea a mile or two and start circling. We watch the artillery tubes popping. We wait our turn. And when they’re done for the night, everybody swings down and goes into formation, dropping down to about ten feet above the water and goes in. It’s time for a real war.
Three gunships on point, the rest in a wedge. We go in low because it limits detection, plus we get off this way, adds to the thrill of the chase to blow in above the treetops and the water, a beautiful thing at an immense rate of speed. Hanging out over the gun and the wind is pushing your face to the side. You’re cradled over the gun, which is mounted on a bar with a pivot. It has an aviation mount on the ass end—two handles with twin triggers. Hang out over the side of the gun with the trigger handles back by your waist, and hold onto the carrying handle on the top, so you can lean out over the gun and get a better angle on the target below. You can spin the gun any way you want.
Antiaircraft tracers come up immediately, so you scan the arcing path of the hot red light back down to the ground, spinning the gun on its pivot, catching it with the other hand, firing deep into the source.
And then the rockets slip out of the hold, diving through the air beyond the point we can see, and somewhere in the night slipping into the earth twelve feet. The detonation aftershocks we sometimes feel. If the chopper headlights shine just right on the trees and the structures below, you can see the effect of the big quake, shrugging up the earth under all those cocks. That too is beautiful, beautiful. The speed of the chopper pushing this cool wind into your face, and looking down and seeing the result of your work in this mysterious, restless light.
Wound within the Earth/The Wound Is Not Invisible
There’s a magic to pussy. An intense event that suddenly occurs in your mind. You might be eating a steak in the mess, or you might be 2000 feet up looking into cloud cover—you might be balling, or shitting, or cracking a joke on the field comm: but it takes over like an aneurysm. You blank for this indefinable period—clear. It clears you. It’s like a surge, not like a fading absence. Lightning striking the highest point, stabbing into you. You may not get it right away—then it haunts you. A delicious mystery that shivers the nape of your neck and across the scalp, a feeling better in its own way than coming.
And that’s pussy—moving up on you, attacking you with this charge at the highest level and making you know it as pleasure.
Language Creates the Problem/Upheavals in the Earth
Nails crawls across the floor with his flight suit unzipped from neck to fly, his long, engorged cock dragging the ground. His nuts still caught up in the suit.
He crawls across and a smell comes up of pure male animal heat. His lips quivering, I can see his tongue leaping about in his mouth, salivating.
“Let me—let me suck it…”
I haven’t moved. I haven’t stopped standing. “You’ll never suck my cock. You’ll suck her cock.” And I point to Julianne.
Julianne is desperately pumping out cock with the prick pump; she moans with each pump because it fills her cock with blood and tightens the sensitive glans and prepuce connected up to raw nerves.
Nails whimpers, not at the sight of so penetrating a cock, but because he cannot have what he wants. I won’t permit it. Pussy is not about denial and is not a form of denial, but with Nails I must deny him to teach him pussy. He cock-wants the thought of fulfillment through getting what he wants. Cock-wants must be broken on the path to pussy.
It’s a path he has to follow.
A path he charged himself to follow.
A path he follows crawling.
Eyes mean nothing in a search for pussy, on the path to pussy. You smell your way to pussy. You feel your way as you crawl to pussy. You imagine your way. Call it out of your mind—you direct your way to pussy. Your way to pussy is that one way you charge yourself to reach your goal. That goal may be to reach pussy, or not to reach it, or to crawl forever on the path to pussy. Your goal may be to crawl all the way up to the source of the scent and only to fall there inhaling. Your goal may be to taste it, to touch it, to fuck it. You may set your goal at becoming pussy.
This is the highest goal. This goal of becoming pussy.
This goal of becoming pussy is the highest goal.
Nails crawls past me sniffing for my pussy and snorting in heat. He must pass to reach Julianne.
Julianne is not waiting for Nails. Her pumping is her own path; she disregards other paths.
Two paths are about to intersect.
Nails fawns at Julianne’s feet. He urges her to remove the pump from her gorgeous new cock. How long it is, how really fat, how really big, how thick, how really heavy. Her new cock is all pussy.
Free of the pump it rises out away from her. Her hands cradle it, one on the underside and the other at the base, as if to say, “Look at my cunt. My cunt is real. This is the true pussy, and the true path for me. I follow my path without a second thought and look at my success.”
Nails reaches up and pulls the cock down to a more oblique angle. He smells the prepuce and kisses it with his lips and tongue. Julianne groans, her path intersecting his. She is finding a new path.
Nails is swallowing the whole of Julianne’s cock, and she fucks his lips, his mouth, and pushing deeper until the full length of her new cock disappears in him, she fucks his throat. Fucking his throat with her cunt.
“I’m fucking your throat with my cunt.”
“My cunt aches with this new path.”
“I’m finding new cunt.”
“I’m following new pussy. Your throat is my new path.”
Nails gags on the cock fucking his throat, Julianne’s cock. His throat muscles spasm uncontrollably on the whole length of her cock.
His throat a pussy squeezing and pulling and swallowing Julianne’s new cock as he suffocates on his path to pussy.
As Nails suffocates, his body thrashes, spasming, jerking along with the muscles in his bull neck. Julianne doesn’t stop fucking for a second: “I’ve found my path and I’m not letting go.”
Saliva runs down Nails’ throat and chest as he gags on Julianne’s cock. The saliva and the cock choking off his air supply, and the heavy cock forcing his throat into deep glottal spasms. She is so deep, Julianne is so deep.
When you fuck on the path to pussy, go deep. Go deep.
Julianne fucks deep with the full length of her new cock in Nails’ throat. Nails is giving up, the muscles in his neck tiring and spasming less frequently, less powerfully. And then they pull harder than ever in a last attempt to force down Julianne’s long, fat new cock.
“Oh, I’m coming into your guts!” And Julianne slumps forward falling over Nails. Both spreading out exhausted on the floor, in the dust of the dirt floor shack.
“Coming, coming—I’m coming into your belly.” Julianne’s stomach muscles leap with each pump of her orgasm.
And the cock breaks off in Nails’ throat.
Nails leaps from the floor, clutching his throat, and dives back down in a swiftly performed arc. His fingers enter his mouth, cramming or pulling on the base of the lost cock. And his muscles, as if renewed, spasm violently. Executing exaggerated swallows, Nails rolls the floor, the hair on his naked chest and belly and cock dusted with the bare dry earth.
As he spasms and works on the cock he begins to swallow it, getting it to go down. Relief shows on his face, in his eyes.
He keeps working at it; he sees this is his new path, the path created by the intersection of paths. He fights to follow this path to pussy. To survive it.
I don’t know how I can survive this path to pussy.
This is the deadliest path. This path could knock me back to the depths of cock dying, the depths of cock eagerness to die.
I charge myself to survive this path to pussy. My mission to reach my goal.
Nails swallows with greater effort. He squeezes his throat with his fingers, feeling for a grip on the cock lodged in him, and pumping at his throat with his two clenched hands to facilitate the peristalsis of the cock.
He gets it. He moves along the path.
He struggles along the path, on the dirt floor, writhing, his throat spasming with hands tortured on his neck.
My Pure Cunt
My cock is pure. So fat it shines, at a peak in satisfaction with its energy; it is in now state—neither falling back to inertia nor rushing forward into release—it is satisfied to be: hard, charged and ready.
This is not a cock of revenge. Not a cock of ideology, not of democracy, nor of conservative union. This is not a cock to mark the passing or the advancing of any regime, conquest, colony, economy, or class. This cock is the cock of my mission. This cock is the pressure of my self on the cunt of myself.
The cunt to hold onto this mission and to guide it—to hold it—in being.
I fuck myself. With my own cock.
I love myself to love myself.
I fuck myself to bring myself closer to myself.
Clawing and sucking at cock to get more of this cock. Frenzied cock rubbing on cunt slick open and grasping. I feel time becoming mine. I feel time becoming mine. Becoming my cock rubbing slices open and becoming cunt. This is cunt. The cunt is open. Come out of feeling into being.
At a second every second my mission to being becoming this minute cock comes into mine.
Eye of the Storm
My pussy is the eye of the storm spotting out last stronghold of cock military in this jungle. The storm approaches. Noting location of each gun emplacement, barracks, business district, and calling the bombs.
Calling the bombs, the storm explodes over cock encampment. My eye weeps the last bomb into earth and shatters the hope of control.
Calling the Bombs (A Spell)
Rain of fire on the heads of cocks afraid to die
and on cocks dying and already dying
Rain of fire on the murderers
Rain of deadly fire on those who believe in death
Calling the bombs
Calling the bombs
Falling to rise up again like earthquakes
in the minds of murderers who believe in dying
Calling the bombs to destroy my enemies
Destroy my enemies
Calling the bombs
I Am the Bomb
There’s only one answer to the murderers—the murder of murder. By this I achieve the goals of my self, the mission which I have charged myself to fulfill.
One answer: Bringing them the bombs.
Tipping an earthquake beneath them, felling them all—every man woman and child who murders—and they all murder. They all murder.
Murderers swarming on all surfaces of any room, in tunnels, crevasses, insect-like but diametrically opposed to insect life. And murderously opposed to any soul.
Pussy is a bomb.
Acting to end this civilization.
Author the end.
The end.
Forbidden Flowers
Choppers at Night
Peel back the layers at last I reveal myself, last cock iota gone.
Bombs Bursting in Earth
Coming good deep earthquake rises and the cock world ends.
Shoot First Questions Later
My mission coming face first into my self; face full of this jissom; I have so much jissom because of the quantity I have stolen for myself.
I am the thief in the night, sleeping back through layers of myself to the jissom of my only true soul. Coming this jissom into sheets held up as immaculate portrait of self.
Self love in the ancient being.
Shoot first ask questions later.
Thunder in the Skies
Chopper volume intensifies over jungle upon approaching cock stronghold—fear in the cocks, cocks scatter, cocks in confusion.
Pussy rising over the horizon.
Eye of the Storm
My pussy is the eye of the storm spotting out last stronghold of cock military in this jungle. The storm approaches. Noting location of each gun emplacement, barracks, and business district, then calling the bombs.
Calling the bombs, the storm explodes over cock encampment. My eye weeps the last bomb into earth and shatters the hope of control.
Calling the Bombs (A Spell)
Rain of fire on the heads of cocks afraid to die
and on cocks dying and already dying
Rain of fire on the murderers
Rain of deadly fire on those who believe in death
Calling the bombs
Calling the bombs
Falling to rise up again like earthquakes
in the minds of murderers who believe in dying
Call the bombs to destroy my enemies
Destroy my enemies
Destroy my enemies
Camera
Spy taking photographs of Pussy but all the pictures are burned out in a glaring brightness. No image remains.
The camera circumscribes the image. Pussy will not be circumscribed. The image remains, but cannot be deciphered.
The image of pussy is there, but cock eyes cannot see it. This is a picture that changes. It mutates on film which cannot hold it static. The movement creates a blur for the untutored eye.
Now is a moment in flux. Pussy stays in this moment. Camera image immediately falls back into the past—it captures a now, kills it, that recedes with the tide of time. Once you’ve taken a photograph, it ceases to be now and has already become the past.
You can’t take a picture of NOW.
Pussy is NOW.
A photo of pussy is a blank. A blur. An image that doesn’t exist. An image you can’t comprehend—that cocks can’t comprehend.
How can you take a picture of NOW? Now is what you don’t understand, what you don’t know. Now is the moment of your being which you haven’t processed yet—you don’t know it. But the past is already known. Photographs and stories exist where you already know them. Real pictures and stories are strange and unknown—because they explore the state of discovery of being. The discovery of self is their goal, and this makes them now.
To take a photograph of NOW it is necessary to photograph the discovery of the state of being.
We’re going to remember this all of our lives. Wrapped in this midday sex heat in steamy Saigon. In the middle of war. With bombs bursting around us.
And that’s pussy—moving up on you, attacking you with this charge at the highest level and making you know it as pleasure.
Language Creates the Problem/Upheavals in the Earth
Nails crawls across the floor with his flight suit unzipped from neck to fly, his long, engorged cock dragging the ground. His nuts still caught up in the suit.
He crawls across and a smell comes up of pure male animal heat. His lips quivering, I can see his tongue leaping about in his mouth, salivating.
“Let me—let me suck it…”
I haven’t moved. I haven’t stopped standing. “You’ll never suck my cock. You’ll suck her cock.” And I point to Julianne.
Julianne is desperately pumping out cock with the prick pump; she moans with each pump because it fills her cock with blood and tightens the sensitive glans and prepuce connected up to raw nerves.
Nails whimpers, not at the sight of so penetrating a cock, but because he cannot have what he wants. I won’t permit it. Pussy is not about denial and is not a form of denial, but with Nails I must deny him to teach him pussy. He cock-wants the thought of fulfillment through getting what he wants. Cock-wants must be broken on the path to pussy.
It’s a path he has to follow.
A path he charged himself to follow.
A path he follows crawling.
Eyes mean nothing in a search for pussy, on the path to pussy. You smell your way to pussy. You feel your way as you crawl to pussy. You imagine your way. Call it out of your mind—you direct your way to pussy. Your way to pussy is that one way you charge yourself to reach your goal. That goal may be to reach pussy, or not to reach it, or to crawl forever on the path to pussy. Your goal may be to crawl all the way up to the source of the scent and only to fall there inhaling. Your goal may be to taste it, to touch it, to fuck it. You may set your goal at becoming pussy.
This is the highest goal. This goal of becoming pussy.
This goal of becoming pussy is the highest goal.
Nails crawls past me sniffing for my pussy and snorting in heat. He must pass to reach Julianne.
Julianne is not waiting for Nails. Her pumping is her own path; she disregards other paths.
Two paths are about to intersect.
Nails fawns at Julianne’s feet. He urges her to remove the pump from her gorgeous new cock. How long it is, how really fat, how really big, how thick, how really heavy. Her new cock is all pussy.
Free of the pump it rises out away from her. Her hands cradle it, one on the underside and the other at the base, as if to say, “Look at my cunt. My cunt is real. This is the true pussy, and the true path for me. I follow my path without a second thought and look at my success.”
Nails reaches up and pulls the cock down to a more oblique angle. He smells the prepuce and kisses it with his lips and tongue. Julianne groans, her path intersecting his. She is finding a new path.
Nails is swallowing the whole of Julianne’s cock, and she fucks his lips, his mouth, and pushing deeper until the full length of her new cock disappears in him, she fucks his throat. Fucking his throat with her cunt.
“I’m fucking your throat with my cunt.”
“My cunt aches with this new path.”
“I’m finding new cunt.”
“I’m following new pussy. Your throat is my new path.”
Nails gags on the cock fucking his throat, Julianne’s cock. His throat muscles spasm uncontrollably on the whole length of her cock.
His throat a pussy squeezing and pulling and swallowing Julianne’s new cock as he suffocates on his path to pussy.
As Nails suffocates, his body thrashes, spasming, jerking along with the muscles in his bull neck. Julianne doesn’t stop fucking for a second: “I’ve found my path and I’m not letting go.”
Saliva runs down Nails’ throat and chest as he gags on Julianne’s cock. The saliva and the cock choking off his air supply, and the heavy cock forcing his throat into deep glottal spasms. She is so deep, Julianne is so deep.
When you fuck on the path to pussy, go deep. Go deep.
Julianne fucks deep with the full length of her new cock in Nails’ throat. Nails is giving up, the muscles in his neck tiring and spasming less frequently, less powerfully. And then they pull harder than ever in a last attempt to force down Julianne’s long, fat new cock.
“Oh, I’m coming into your guts!” And Julianne slumps forward falling over Nails. Both spreading out exhausted on the floor, in the dust of the dirt floor shack.
“Coming, coming—I’m coming into your belly.” Julianne’s stomach muscles leap with each pump of her orgasm.
And the cock breaks off in Nails’ throat.
Nails leaps from the floor, clutching his throat, and dives back down in a swiftly performed arc. His fingers enter his mouth, cramming or pulling on the base of the lost cock. And his muscles, as if renewed, spasm violently. Executing exaggerated swallows, Nails rolls the floor, the hair on his naked chest and belly and cock dusted with the bare dry earth.
As he spasms and works on the cock he begins to swallow it, getting it to go down. Relief shows on his face, in his eyes.
He keeps working at it; he sees this is his new path, the path created by the intersection of paths. He fights to follow this path to pussy. To survive it.
I don’t know how I can survive this path to pussy.
This is the deadliest path. This path could knock me back to the depths of cock dying, the depths of cock eagerness to die.
I charge myself to survive this path to pussy. My mission to reach my goal.
Nails swallows with greater effort. He squeezes his throat with his fingers, feeling for a grip on the cock lodged in him, and pumping at his throat with his two clenched hands to facilitate the peristalsis of the cock.
He gets it. He moves along the path.
He struggles along the path, on the dirt floor, writhing, his throat spasming with hands tortured on his neck.
My Pure Cunt
My cock is pure. So fat it shines, at a peak in satisfaction with its energy; it is in now state—neither falling back to inertia nor rushing forward into release—it is satisfied to be: hard, charged and ready.
This is not a cock of revenge. Not a cock of ideology, not of democracy, nor of conservative union. This is not a cock to mark the passing or the advancing of any regime, conquest, colony, economy, or class. This cock is the cock of my mission. This cock is the pressure of my self on the cunt of myself.
The cunt to hold onto this mission and to guide it—to hold it—in being.
I fuck myself. With my own cock.
I love myself to love myself.
I fuck myself to bring myself closer to myself.
Clawing and sucking at cock to get more of this cock. Frenzied cock rubbing on cunt slick open and grasping. I feel time becoming mine. I feel time becoming mine. Becoming my cock rubbing slices open and becoming cunt. This is cunt. The cunt is open. Come out of feeling into being.
At a second every second my mission to being becoming this minute cock comes into mine.
Eye of the Storm
My pussy is the eye of the storm spotting out last stronghold of cock military in this jungle. The storm approaches. Noting location of each gun emplacement, barracks, business district, and calling the bombs.
Calling the bombs, the storm explodes over cock encampment. My eye weeps the last bomb into earth and shatters the hope of control.
Calling the Bombs (A Spell)
Rain of fire on the heads of cocks afraid to die
and on cocks dying and already dying
Rain of fire on the murderers
Rain of deadly fire on those who believe in death
Calling the bombs
Calling the bombs
Falling to rise up again like earthquakes
in the minds of murderers who believe in dying
Calling the bombs to destroy my enemies
Destroy my enemies
Calling the bombs
I Am the Bomb
There’s only one answer to the murderers—the murder of murder. By this I achieve the goals of my self, the mission which I have charged myself to fulfill.
One answer: Bringing them the bombs.
Tipping an earthquake beneath them, felling them all—every man woman and child who murders—and they all murder. They all murder.
Murderers swarming on all surfaces of any room, in tunnels, crevasses, insect-like but diametrically opposed to insect life. And murderously opposed to any soul.
Pussy is a bomb.
Acting to end this civilization.
Author the end.
The end.
Forbidden Flowers
Choppers at Night
Peel back the layers at last I reveal myself, last cock iota gone.
Bombs Bursting in Earth
Coming good deep earthquake rises and the cock world ends.
Shoot First Questions Later
My mission coming face first into my self; face full of this jissom; I have so much jissom because of the quantity I have stolen for myself.
I am the thief in the night, sleeping back through layers of myself to the jissom of my only true soul. Coming this jissom into sheets held up as immaculate portrait of self.
Self love in the ancient being.
Shoot first ask questions later.
Thunder in the Skies
Chopper volume intensifies over jungle upon approaching cock stronghold—fear in the cocks, cocks scatter, cocks in confusion.
Pussy rising over the horizon.
Eye of the Storm
My pussy is the eye of the storm spotting out last stronghold of cock military in this jungle. The storm approaches. Noting location of each gun emplacement, barracks, and business district, then calling the bombs.
Calling the bombs, the storm explodes over cock encampment. My eye weeps the last bomb into earth and shatters the hope of control.
Calling the Bombs (A Spell)
Rain of fire on the heads of cocks afraid to die
and on cocks dying and already dying
Rain of fire on the murderers
Rain of deadly fire on those who believe in death
Calling the bombs
Calling the bombs
Falling to rise up again like earthquakes
in the minds of murderers who believe in dying
Call the bombs to destroy my enemies
Destroy my enemies
Destroy my enemies
Camera
Spy taking photographs of Pussy but all the pictures are burned out in a glaring brightness. No image remains.
The camera circumscribes the image. Pussy will not be circumscribed. The image remains, but cannot be deciphered.
The image of pussy is there, but cock eyes cannot see it. This is a picture that changes. It mutates on film which cannot hold it static. The movement creates a blur for the untutored eye.
Now is a moment in flux. Pussy stays in this moment. Camera image immediately falls back into the past—it captures a now, kills it, that recedes with the tide of time. Once you’ve taken a photograph, it ceases to be now and has already become the past.
You can’t take a picture of NOW.
Pussy is NOW.
A photo of pussy is a blank. A blur. An image that doesn’t exist. An image you can’t comprehend—that cocks can’t comprehend.
How can you take a picture of NOW? Now is what you don’t understand, what you don’t know. Now is the moment of your being which you haven’t processed yet—you don’t know it. But the past is already known. Photographs and stories exist where you already know them. Real pictures and stories are strange and unknown—because they explore the state of discovery of being. The discovery of self is their goal, and this makes them now.
To take a photograph of NOW it is necessary to photograph the discovery of the state of being.
We’re going to remember this all of our lives. Wrapped in this midday sex heat in steamy Saigon. In the middle of war. With bombs bursting around us.
