Event


Shit on your whole mortifying, imaginary, and symbolic theater! – Gilles Deleuze


Night of Orientalist fever,

Saw them all,

saw them all.

Wo weilest du pierces

and shrieks lands

where Homeland does not stay.

You, a text, a tome, a transcendental

transparency – one corner

of the claustrophobic cosmic room;

It, there for reasons intangible,

unmapped, a suitor's investment

inter-dispersed through knobs

automatically switched, flown open,

mocktail drinks, sauvignon flowers.

He, so many – the he that buys

your way in, chips the cards in

a certain favour, and

the other he, the shield knob

turner, hand gesturer.

Chinese eyes turn and twinkle

as strings of dental floss.


Now they invite you.

Blood bled from games of

unspeakable irrevocable foot

fetish, tapestry torn to the gaudy

ground. Bourgeois femdom

gone strong. Why kiss

feet when group game stronger,

twinkling saucers of crystal drink,

that he drunk as he washed the

twelve submissive feet.

Twelve a reminder to find one's

Homeland. But home at an event

is a trace teased away

by yellow twinkling stars and green.


Registration, a necessary stage

that even necessity's own remembrance

pioneers. As the momentum swirling

governance of semblance of order.

As the decorum of stage dancers.

You go do so for the quality

of seduction beckons. Just a quality


but Epicurus is an ethos himself

not to be missed. As the buffet spread

(a cold turkey and spinach salad, vegetables

and cheeses your imaginations spread,

then a drink salted with the migraines of

common men as they plan for their first

head using their second)

imaginations turned. Food fetish,

all fetishes exposed, exhibited

artefact under artefact, treasures

within slimy saxophone sleaze.

The heads turn. A sensing

of verisimilitude – acquaintance

banter, can't drop eclairs following

gay hats inflexed jolly, Koolkid

linguistically mechanical, nostalgic,

overused. Perhaps quiet resounds

safer, till You very wisely axe your

zip. The ABCs of eventful logic.

Blaze your peacock tail eternal!


The loo is vacant unless one

were to count the individual strands

and sands of heavenly smelling

excrement, or having to utilize

it as a term of address. They

banned Pynchon from the Poo-

Litzer after accusations

of deranged coprophilia.

Hahaha geddit

I'm so funny.

Go to the loo!

Be gone, banished henceforth!

Excrement out of a channel

just what you think it is when

You're toxic spinning round and round

Outside the event's centre.

Out get out get out get out get

out get out get out get out get

out get out

out out out.


Before the rain

and gold showers

it is vacant. Procession into

the Event, mother nature's

womb and worshipping clitoris,

Mary had a lamb on the cross

and when they fed him to the de

generates you know they kind of

came. Sweet Jesus they came.

为什么are the anuses so sweet

and the honeys dripping so torrential

为什么 did it leave

为什么 did you leave

You the other you who actually

reads shrieks Narrator is no more.

Brace your lips and cheeks

for a wide elastic stretch. Thy

thigh gaps will too as your ass

cheeks depart a solid event

into a third set of lips.


爱是恨是死亡 und morgen

stirbst du ins Bett, the comfy

tensions resolved. Event

at a night house a ballet and masked

orgy. Tom Cruise. Nicole Kidman.

Stanley Kubrick. Fantasies are never

realized by us.


The traitor that agony is. Some day

you'll realize du bist satt tust du weh

leck mich im Arsch

and on that day it will storm cocoa.

And they did say Italians were kinky.

Maybe it was the cocoa.


Stolen from the Indies and the Southern

Dogs. A memoriam in memory of

the event. What? The colony,

or the planting of a state flag?

Cancer's flagellum flies persistent, strokes

nutrient medium up down as the event's

pumps work it. You vomit

essays of raw, sick salmonella. You

don't know.

The gut wrench it takes to spill,

to confess, to cut oneself.

You don't.


This is a service in memory.

He reads the eulogy as now-wife

stands silent in a veil of black

whose silent guilt remains inked,

the guilt that those feet hands

mouth once fondled another

traitorous cock. The words

that one types into a generator

of words, yielding results

for dog death, cat death, hell,

even authorial death. The body

that lies among the congregation

or in a silent boneyard reddens,

both in head and in head.

The second for raw painful

tingling. The first

of a guilt so nauseous to be spoken.

Pray, epitaphs are said. He leaves,

she in his wake.

Someday they will join you.