Beyond Stitchable

Let's workshop this poem about how even pure involuntary mechanism--such as the continued beating of a heart even during bleed out--can be read as a teasing demand to dive in deep as possible.

See asterisk commentary below for why I am now redacting my photos. TDLR: perpetual infants get perpetual frost

scent of the day: CP Raspberry, by Ensar Oud

berry upfront—almost converging, sort of like the horseshoe theory of politics, to the cloying extreme of designer dreck. But just as it is about to go too far it pulls back, the whole tightening (like the rewind of a star explosion) into an oudy smokey ash. This is so smokey and ashy that, given the berry note on top of it all, it is almost like the tropical twin of the industrial Terroni—and, if calling them “twins” is too much of a stretch, this is the Arnold Schwarzenegger (raised on the cleanest tropical foods) and Terroni is Danny Devito (raised on the mass-market processed food perfect for the American medical industry). Either way, CP Rasp is as bold as Terroni, a remarkable feat for a natural perfume.

This first day I wore this was to pick up my cat from the hospital. One spray and the veterinary assistant could not finish this blowjob—no, just kidding. One spray, applied two hours prior, was enough for my partner to ask me to wipe it off with Wet Ones on the the way there. The wet ones did not work enouygh for her.

CP raspberry is very pervasive and could be offensive in that way—although I personally find it hard to be repulsed by any Ensar, especially this one. Again, we have the perfect example here if the horseshoe theory in action: “pure naturals” that radiate as if synthetic.

This I feel forms a pair with Purple Kinam in the way that Aroha Kyaku forms a pair with Black Changho. Aside from musk (here it is Tonkin and in Purple Kinam it is Mongolian), these two share a strong tobacco-oudiness (the oud in here is dirtier and ashier as opposed to mushroomy) with an explicit overlap in aquatic-tea blue lotus, pollen-fuzz mimosa, and jammy-seedy raspberry.

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Beyond Stitchable

She cannot stop corralling
reports of neonatal cock sleeves:
what hooks her, hole ruin

just the tip, are the thoracic
creampies, how even the tiniest
plum heart will squeeze—

unbroken, unlike beheaded
cloaca—in that milking gallop
humans in ecstasy demand.

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*In league with anti-art humans (the canceler scum gremlins among us)—now we have faggot AI scouring my platforms to flag things that might upset “vulnerable populations.” For that reason I have chosen to treat everyone as infants, bot and human alike—the bots who have banned me from Claude and GPT as well as the humans who have gotten me removed from Substack and terminated from my professorship. I will frost all my photos—which, in an illiterate world of TikTok’s infinite jest, should be the only needed safety measure.

On that point, it just blows my mind that people who lack the firepower to read the sheet music of my syntax have any say over literary art. I want to say, “Isn’t that wild? Doesn’t that blow your mind?” But am I even speaking to someone who respects the word—or who can even fucking read? Jesus Christ!

What is even worse is that—AND THERE IS RARELY AN EXCEPTION TO THIS RULE (so watch what the fuck you say to yourself)—the people most offended by transgressive literature, literature that explores the darker things of which humans are capable—those motherfuckers are the secret diddlers of our beloved children and pets.

Let me make the rule clear for the spastics among you: THOSE WHO ARE THE MOST VOCALLY DISGUSTED BY TABOO SUBJECTS ARE OFTEN THE ONES STRUGGLING WITH THOSE EXACT SAME IMPULSES. There is a corollary to this rule: THE MORE YOU ARE CALLED TO REPORT (CENSOR, SILENCE, SHAME) THE ARTIST FOR HIS OR HER TABOO SUBJECTS, THE MORE LIKELY YOU ARE, IN FACT, STRUGGLING.

Look at all the anti-homo preachers. Look what they are about. Look how they get methed-out just to make it fucking last all night like Tom Petty. Fucking heartbreaker huh? Don’t think you are an exception.

I have your number! And I will not stop calling you out. I will not stop poking holes through your veneer of respectability, your calls for “safety.” Give me a break! I know what your “I’m triggered” and “I’m offended” means. It is as see-through as a toupee, as an oversized watch. You are overcompensating.

Nah. That lets you off too easy. Your “I’m shaking right now” is as see-through as tinted windows on a “family” van. You are performing a burlesque of virtue to hide the rot—perfect for a Kardashian world: plastic, shallow, performative.

You cancelers are the dark souls. You ban me, the mirror holder, because you are disgusted at yourselves—because you know what the fuck you are into, you lying scumbags. It is a tale as old as time. The poet shows you as the pigs you are. If we were not all set for obliteration anyway, I would never cast my pearls at you. Hawk tuah. I spit on you cunts.

Don’t ever project your sick fantasies on a person shedding light on the dark. Report yourselves. Not me. You are living nightmares right out of Orwell. And you lack even the basic humility to see it.