Virus mask




the plastic fluid settled like a taciturn old man, in the lowest parts being the fleshy scrotum and turned a livid eggplant hue which did not deter our amorous intentions and he pecked away in stops and starts- stabbing little flesh shots of joy in one ear and out the other while the clamorous bells of the church rang out in frantic peals as the steeple ripped the bellies out of virgin clouds and all the while the one legged bandicoot snuffled anxiously around the tattered bed, sniffing at the sybarite scents and bemoaning his own wicked needs to bite young women there...yes there, in the fleshy folds of agony.


thumbscrew 116




la gioconda



Girl in a Glove

Original image by Tweezil with additional manipulation by CJ Duffy


micker mood to twitch, earstuff it in the nest week souot ..

Seriously spouting out the silent Mitty flicker...
webbed heart quicken and thicken litterbug,
unison with the pearl railroad systems off with the HEAD... led,
no names on the shirts, faces with fevers zepzete.
Burning, but still yellow in color stroide infant gangleoid tough bugger.

A grave stone patch of woods, serious pretty arse
stretched school bus in a measuring cup its yours now Ive always been a janitoir,
trouble shit in the dishwater what’s this paint on nowhere elixir of poignancy,
I was up in the attic, ripping the new school a rad influence ...conflugent oblongish,
steel friend I don’t know snobbins.

Dedicated to what the fickle is this guy doing? storbish lite acrylic hairs
A spider is a spider, a human is a human I said Hares.
Dart isn’t a janitor up there banging doing drums...but no one listens.
Well we were up there looking out its exquithit.
Lower parts running letters feel off and got caught by going back so ethilent.

Not even the first time, arrange a hearsetafield suite
crazy looking hippie got out of your accident, Beethoven new the lines of rich soil
hair can change you cut them all off before pink floyd, din he?
it was all the wind, was blowing, Flogging the spheres....ploggint the gurls
old hippie from the 60s like a deranged rooster, slippers asque
got up caught my dreads off. Attracted the crickets, Teeth hanging out
making babies, guy on all my pretties. Ze letterbox full o BS....winkin slowdreadful sequelch

easy done
eassy won
easy chair
Morning branch rub
hot tub
delicious sanctity riding her hi-horse

By aaron & zete


parasitical fear- what it is, really?
wake and spill into a soporific torrent.


I am not able to field your kind offers. Your analytical constructions appear to bring the figurations I am interested in to bear upon those abstractions which I am seeking to excise; and your general arguments are at the same time persuasive and cogent. You are part-way there. The basis of my hesitation is linked only to those areas of indistinct logicality which you persist in including. The pictures I am imagining, and which I desire to physicalise, cannot happen unless other, in fact opposed, varieties of description are liberated and made proper use of. I explained all this previously; yet you repeat the same errors in your latest submission. Content simply cannot be comparative. I have no stake in such things; so you must not either. What I seek is entirety. What you offer is analogy.



Painting Games


I want to apply within or about experience. I want to characterise those roles as thought, and in so doing I want to defy description. Actualities will change hands, I realise. Insofar as each of my days is domestic and uniform, I will respect cooperation as a social imperative. I will, however, place limitations upon this; for example, only contributing to those rare occasions which involve sexual touching of particular, especial intensity. Other sessions will pass me by. I seek no regularity. My interest in completion has been thoroughly tested. Nothing was found wanting, I can assure you. The focus of all this for me is the basis of pleasure. I have to be involved. Other permissions are possible, but, for now, I seek this programme only.

No interest & The Great Kid Choir.

Eyes while I vile,
sitting likea seed, means this.
What’s a relation with this,
meditated on sedated orals.
Only gurgles the last line,
recite it one more time..
this time “don’t look at the camera”
your full of fool, walking the street.
You don’t care, your ridiculous, look at your stride.
Inside the toes, looking for the code.
Stripped of his behold, and a shattered finger.
Struck a match, but it’s wet.
Struck the time, it was waiting a while.
Opposite of the now interesting feature.
Walking the time,
While You like and lie.
With a neck around the corner, torch in the window.
Heavenly sparrow, death is on the handkerchief,
rats carry the violet wave.
Send a cat to the internal cabbage.
Caught my finger in the dishes.
Slowly deadly but never messing up,
live again, to much in debt.
What’s the whistle?
Watch the zoo, amusement park, go UP.
Hear the laughing from the soda dispenser,
wheels still linger, in the orifice of matter.
Starts again, with the laugh still bringing on the gold,
time to start sampling, lighter laughter monkey boy.
Its time to start pleasing another widow before my time is up.
No dog in his position, the crown of the pack.
Choir is caught choking in vinegar, before it’s time.

Apocalypse Knight gives ride to Androgynous Christ

3 thoughtless actions

keelish gob.

heavy is to play,
oh heaven seven got the rose bud, snow globe,
his salad has his childhood,
and the red hood is violent
the practice is to silver, sparkly... sparkly..
in a house in a house, fighting spouse,
grandma quickening getting faster, speeding up.
hosing down the back porch with so many options
rising with the scorpion and washing the front hood,
play a nice old game, and finish that landing.
operate under the dresser under the thoughts of begging.
peaches of pieces, i know there NOT and if it were to be,
I thought i was obviously a cartoon, barley, bartley, I'm done.
caution caution, softy creme, i am the fish cold, clean, clean green..
saving me, fish lips, apple lung, not a sure answer, in a jail, in the border.
walking, with my hands in my pocket, wishing, watching while in my aisle,
every 60 seconds, eating, feeding, breathing snacks.
coy dog, the language explodes each to his own.
I have money on thee pilgrim is sacrilegious sleepovers.

in his head explodes,
paper bird flow.
in a cone...cone.
will you come wit
come wit me.
in a silver bed explores... somewhere.


The Phone Call








keep your eye upon the shadow

I walked among the alien corn, and heard crows there, but could not see them, and they called on me with another name, and I whispered that is not my name, and they continued to call, and I said that is not my name, and they continued to call, and I screamed that is not my name, and they continued to call, and now that is my name.



really should
I've lost her. I tried again and again. But it hasn't worked, and she's left me - not for another, she's just had enough. I thought today time may have healed me but it didn't. I got so angry. Went outside looking. I badly hurt them. They were just closest. I had no connection. So now it's easier. But it won't last I think. At least this way I can be intimate at times. But I won't ever love. We may have something in common. Maybe what I've put here interests you enough to send a message. I'm not even sure I want messages. And no, I don't know why I'm here or why I'm completing this profile and letting others see it. All I know is that I'm hurt both physically and mentally, I'm suffering, and no amount of knowledge can change that. Some new cage awaits me somewhere, another trap. I'm ticking like a timebomb. I just know once I'm over this I'll make the same mistakes again.

Celeste :(



Bells To Tautology Only Singing Back

Never just to be the scent of her, weird secrets not a lie to islands here and now, cardinal shadows, a cliff's speaking of time.

Where are my taut apples parched with cordite around the bend?

Humbled in coming to the realization, musket in hand, the horses sang in a box. Bandits, buffoons drowned me, no dream-maiden to dissolve.

Black twists of goathead film in your earth. Boombox hurricane covenants with moon
umbrellas because they know they'll stick to the doors of the mausoleum.
Mysterious skeletal pigments,
I drag my reluctant book upside down,
trees with your fetus that insanity is the only
reasonable option in my mouth.





scarred trunks waver, glottal. soft spoors, dew-starred, unfurl in the still. the stolid barrows fallow silent. the breaths


across the fibrous stalks of fungus-furred moors. that were once of old
growthscar left of old; the trunks gasp hardstop. chitinfeet drum soft belts of tracks; the webvomit up—silk grappling hooks to draw
the hornshells lapse to soil. the cornhusk poppet drools her saccharine sap upon the scars

thunder rushes insubstantial tides against
the great lead sheet earth sleeps

beneath the stolid barrows fallow silent. the cornhusk scrapes the sap. wolf cubs and old crows circle closed with magnetic amber eyes, drawing the bloodsap back to earth. they accrue, metastasize, rippling fur and bloodsquirm

the soil’s peristaltic shudder looses mewls and ululations from starvelings on the prowl. the poppet draws her silk across the dully shining scar. the lesions shiver loose and the tree begins to fledge. now the scar begins again to feel the breaths
I feel unhappy enough to tell a blank screen that I am sick with worry and have given myself headaches. I am driven to say that false teaching fails because it must bewilder and it must promote error and frequency in equal measure. There is no use proposing any other transition; or, more precisely, there is no use proposing further references of that kind by recourse to any other motion. Something inside over-extends me. It is as simple and unavoidable as that. I cannot indicate complete separation from what is bearing upon my mind. It feels like this: The Earth refers to my Father, as he thumbs across the back of my neck, parenting. He is tactile, omnipresent, and indwelling, I am told. This is no exception, either. He gets to provide - licensed by the regular findings I am given. The identification of these forms a coterie of reconstructions, which work to remove possibilities I might think I have. I am only relieved none of this is ever discursive. He attempts, by felicity, to underlie his theories about the confines of consensus by emphasising freedom as he sees it. All that is humane is explicated; all that is humane is justified, a priori. I serve as groundwork. Elsewhere, on other days, I stretch back, reigning in some topical modus operandi, until it (and I) become dissociated, blunted. So much for such ring-fences, I always think. But this is how I escape the certainty of the framework.

night on the town

Defeacting Darius

When Darius Slightlump defecates he defecates a strange shape. This strange shape takes the form of a tiny teddy bear with a smiling face. Having completed his ablutions and arising from the toilet seat the smiling teddy bear poo then follows on behind Darius. Wherever he goes it goes too and always in his wake. Up hill and down dale the smiling teddy bear poo follows. Into shopping halls and even the library.The only problem is when it rains.

Magus Hotel 1959

magus hotel 1959 listener techniques - the control centres [riots/ street noise/ buzz sex/ illness]
tracking texts - rearranged the mechanisms of oppressive state [hint of reverb/ email/ fax/ text]
key of X investigations were more scratchy blur, variant fires, demonstrations, violent programmes blueberry number 23 - future events ambient
refer to physiological need dependency operators
desires attack invisible el hombre - the re-write! the original broadcasts, news bulletins, acts,
industrial groups threat demonic according to the media processes -
sexuality towers open fire of short wave static poet calligrapher beat of anarchist
assassins chilling rasp repossession of sub vocal phrase addiction either/or logic of western philosophy pre-programmed.

Written by A.D.Hitchin, 2009.


A mandible lurching mannequin, manipulated by Penelope, wah wah and the west was won by nature walkers, bird watchers and cheese enthusiasts.










Night on The Town


apparently, it was some bombastic thing that i said. radio silence ensued.


introducing -

I don’t make a habit of writing. That doesn’t matter much because nobody reads all these long words. Like you, I’m vacuous, a pretender, and I'm happy being both. Depth just makes you unhappy. I get my kicks by wasting opportunities. I'm neither keen to please nor seeking approval. So I'm kind of indestructible. When I find my feet here, I'll be able to picture precise actualities - at least in ways sufficient to justify the damage to my reputation I'm trying to affect. I use software which makes all this really easy. I have little involvement other than pushing a few buttons. If I were honest - which I'm not - I'd reprogramme these devices to similarise something ineradicably genuine, and covet those reports from fakes and scammers which I make detailed lists about as a separate but related activity. If I get totally pissed off, I'll leave this site. Mrs Emily Graves (Warwick, UK).


The Castle Spirit

all click all clack, diseasd i, is all

demograph, from her. i get code. then i phone.
no answr. so i message. saying gonna treat you right
out. as if she would agree. hard speaking into
nothing. about nothing. i was told emphathiz. so

plain sight

I pushed slivers of ivory up along my gumline, up under the cheek, the eyes now pulled back a little, which they said would make me appear mysterious but accessible. I was a public thing now, and needed preservation if I was going to be displayed. I was initially uncertain, and felt dishonest, but they told me I only believed in the honesty of the blank page, of the undialed number, of the sour masturbatory fantasy held so long the semen has yellowed, and so I took a rotary drill to the bridge of the nose and ran the fat of ballerinas rendered in their prime along the bumps of the spine, shadowed with soot to suggest the nobility of scoliosis. This public exposure is necessary, I reminded myself, I cannot be found if I am not visible, and I filled my boots with shaved ice to perfect the stagger we agreed best flattered my gait.

They are all chasing after her

i do not wish to continue

I've always been a sucker for a content warning. There's a tease there, an anticipatory sinking in the chest, and I know the promise is going to go beyond the reality, but these are not the same, the promise is a vertiginous possession which remains no matter the evidence, and I can drift on that possibility forever. I'm eleven and staying up on Saturday night watching scrambled pornography for hours, hoping to catch just the right combination of hues to witness some secret genital intersection far more lewd than I could ever catch on the actual unscrambled channels. I'm seventeen and she has fingernails the color of easter eggs, chipped at the edges, warning me of the ugly thing she says she never shared and I try to stay present and aware while I guess at the terminus ad quem of these admissions, the confession beyond which one can never go, and for the first time I realize the sound of her crying always gets me hard. I'm twentyfour and they tell me once I see it I can never unsee it, I can never go back to the way it once was, but there is no way it once was, I have already seen it, that actually seeing it is the only thing that will stop me from seeing it. I'll do anything forever if you promise I can put my finger in the wound.

behind myself

After I flunked out of college for the first time I spent a while where being a witness to the sticky difficulties and joys (these were not two different things, but the same thing) of the interpersonal communication of others. This was my way of hiding. I could stand behind these gropings and shiverings and public appeals for grace and hope for a whiff of direct experience caught on the wind. I got lost, and spoiled my lurker invisibility with want, and someone else's blood caught in the treads of my boots seemed to be a path I could follow. I kept company with those rehearsing inevitable tragedies and I was there to proofread suicide notes and take last known photos. I thought this was experience, and I suspect for certain people there's a shimmering something to be seen, but I'm the obliviest and the lessons passed right through me. Later, when hiding was my way of hiding, I let my body sit in that other place while something that was not my body stood behind my body sometimes, and sometimes did other things. People tell me this was a long time ago (by which they mean I am not who I was, or even who I am), but people also tell me life is short, and if they can have it both ways then so can I.

time after time

Lloyd did this. Lloyd did that. Lloyd did the other and stretched out a finger from his tight angsty mit to press the button on the bulky makeshift Corporeal Chronology Device. Immediately he was in another skin, the skin of his seven year old self from what he could tell from the mirror on the device. But his bone and muscle stayed adult sized, naked, skinless legs poking through childhood feet at his knees. His dissection etching arms sprouting from school age hands, fingers radiating stiff at his elbow like a peacocks tail plumage. And his head sprouted from a crop of cranial fur circulating his neck. Lloyd quickly reached out for the button and stickily pressed it. In the flutter of an eyelash he had changed, but this time more completely. He was Marilyn, and naked. Lloyd felt all the parts you would expect me have him feel, and then clutching the left breast, he bit off the nipple. It isn’t me after all, he thought, grimacing into the mirror, blood on his chin, on her chin, blood cascading over their stomach and pattering pleasantly on the black tiled floor. Another button press and he had changed again. Cramped, aching, stretched out. Sensations where everywhere, touch, sight, smell, tastes, all scattered across his frame, his mind and thoughts too, no longer were they at some centre, but spread across him and at moments autonomous. Lloyd organised the visual component of his form to look in the mirror of the device. He didn’t recognise the reflection, but then a wave of icy nausea rippled across him. He was a replica, a copy of the chronology machine. A fleshy device and with his very own button. A limb came out of him, from a side, a joined articulated femur and rib. He could sense a distant thought down his left side controlling the appendage, but he only seemed able to watch as the tip of the rib folded down and then pressed his button….il slit heir….breathing…sunlight that doesn’t need hope…nothing…


tub 2 09

Clap hinds, toadr, ur codes is fictn. we'r here

i slit the follwr from here to here, with a sharpened stick, poke out
an eyelid. trouble coming now. but i can argue my way out of
any thing i choose. so i slam the door on his fingrs. in time to
rock no roll. then i married him.



couldn't should but did will, accidentally now and then, because always is.



yards of exclusion, stalking orgasm

A news story intrigues Lloyd for an hour, he googles details and fits it together. Enters through roof and kills the kid riding his Wii, Lloyd puts his head next to trophies atrophied plants and swimming pools. Puts the kids decapitated head amongst the fake gold, the Perspex, the twisted glass and distorted reflections. Hands clutch pens, golden DVDs, a book unravels its pages on the coffee table. The trees hiss in wind, whisper above fatal fame headless in sticky pool, on thick carpet, over tiles Italian, and too shiny. Lloyd masturbates feckless, to tunes of latex and disposable teen glamour, to the feet and the thickness of thighs. He mixes landed semen in sticky pool red, streaks it out like sun striations looping, and then speaks into the bare neck, words to swallow throatless, direct to still gurgling belly of lifeless star.
The night is long with body-star, with corpse moon, with waiting to do something else. The Hollywood house is white and gold and South East Asian hard wood. He caresses surfaces. Perfect smooths and fake distress. Runs his reflection along gold handrail climbing up a staircase with modernist rectangles cut into it. Has a shower. Looks in hiding places for another persons porn. Intimate items trickle through his hands. Calm hands at peace open clean sealed packages found in a stack of goody bags. Sprays expensive, sprays it all into linen, into one spot on a fancy sheet the accumulated scents of Europe evaporating in the precision light of inset circles. Light that tilts and can be focused about the room through use of a black rollerballs mounted by the door and in the bedside tables. With a click the rollerballs become dimmers, controllers of shadows, of emergence and submergence. Sending signals across the hills, he sits on the bed in confused fragrance.
Exploring on hands and knees, crawling in a night of riches, freezing as a statue each time the worried phones ring. Time perhaps to leave this pad, find the garage, the petrol, move on slink back.
The flames race high, fingering blackness, exploding dry shrubs. Lloyd scrambles into vague spaces, tearing skin on shrubs, finds a road, ignores and crosses it quickly into a laborious tangle of escape.

Metronome Strip Button

skin landscape



Chairman Spike

deeply, darkly on ebony thighs
she fuels his lust with her maidens sighs
that brews a tea cup for him to drink
with sapphire teeth and gold to chink
against the rim so pristine white
for his passions to ignite.
then upon a broomstick and a shaft
she grips his manhood with able craft
that sends a shudder sure to break
in far brazil a fearful quake,
as now it burbles and starts to boil
so with her teeth she sheaths in foil
the throbbing member as it burst
to flood the street in upper midhurst
that even with a ton of tissues
she cannot soak up all that he issues,
so with one bucket and a spade
from his semen she builds an arcade
for able bodied men and serfs
to bless with coins from their purse.
let's make no mistake, be it large or little,
this mans volume is no lick spittle
as future generations gather blessed
beneath the gelatinous edifice
that harbours jews and gentiles alike
to worship at the altar of chairman spike.


just be consistent- i am here flayed out for your viewing pleasure but the view apparently is not moving you except in a lugubrious way due to the drooping of the flesh and the real time ornery, unseemly mannerisms of the mammaries so it's with a feeble cry that i ask someone- anyone, won't someone just consume my parts? would you like them cold? steamed- i will accept any request, just please put me in your mouth so that i can quit this horrid coruscating.

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