Character Sketch #15

Cant sounds don't fluster or blow.
-Insert De Man's V-8 here-
Jokes are worthy Valentine's .

Character Sketch #11

Character Sketch #10

Character Sketch #9

It's OK to feel bad, I say to him. Really it's OK.

But it isn't OK and he'll probably realize this later. He's probably already there.

Perhaps it has something to do with the perpetual climbing he's doing, towards a language without words, being one of music, being one of continual street lights.

Perhaps it has something to do with the never-ending stress that comes along with being able to read people well enough to see their guts before they turn into offal.

Perhaps it has something to do with the cycle of days, makes us lazy and forget what it is to change rather than revolving around ourselves in framed ruddy circles.

A snail begins its slow ascent up Mount Como, has not yet made such a long journey but is determined as coal is determined to cut everything and anything into cubits. A treasure, the snail computes the preview of the mountain. It is less than picturesque. Few things are. Meaning, the picturesque is not to be sought after any more than a married man seeks after new tender prey. Perhaps the snail is a little flat for this. We'd better stop the story here.  

Character Sketch #8

Doubt distracts:
A bicyclist goes by in a grimace. He has trashed the streets with garbled intimacies correlated with personal language. It doesn't matter. The matter of the street is dark and deserted: nothingness. The rider pedals without moving, trying to go forward but only finding the dark depths within him. Pools of non-light radiate in spirals that fence distorted contours, or, try to at least, because the neat angels' song is a failed prophet: the poet. But fuck him. Fuck the poet who speaks with nothing to say, eating himself out and succumbing to that natural tension that shrieks from the darkness, "Speak thou bat wing'd things, tell me who I am, who am I to speak when angels can sing". The bicyclist quantifies his soul with chic pitch-blackness. Fuck the poet. He quantifies his soul with blood and scraps of bladder. He quantifies his soul with skeleton's eyebrows. An orange goblin slinks from an alleyway and masticates the bicyclist and his bicycle.

Doubt distracts:
Fuck the poet and that damp darkness that consumes them all, like love, cigarettes, alcohol, coffee and leaves only that disembodied ictus. Now that the scene is set, who is he? Where is he? What can we do with him? Will it ever end? He is the spark of this metaphor. 

Character Sketch #7

He has a soft smile. He has a tough way about him. I suppose he’s realxed. He’s suprisingly metaphorical in his speech, like a walrus waiting for the sun to come out and presenting his skin when it does, never moving from his rock and biting the air with his tusks, wholly true to himself, wholly accepting of his blubber. He surfs. 

Crankus the walrus sits and spins tales in silence, compliance aimed at the water where his tail becomes fully meaningful like a sail. To feel is to take a full glass of water and shine light in order to see the hidden colors, though through the confusion and pleochroism one feels the confusion but knows that one must always come back to the clarity of water. He spins tales without ale or ailment, always about the probabilities of the world, this space, waiting for the comfortable being to come through. He avoids opprobrium with neat dexterity. Crankus fills his gut with fish. Crankus fills his mind with stories and perhaps his maw is always involved.

He has red hair. He wanders with his broad shoulders. I suppose he appreciates repetition and the nuance of changes in time, though it is not mysterious nor does it abound in mysterious ways. Taking from the environment and giving certainty back, it is like a screech rising heavily from the earth. He is both of these things. 

Character Sketch #6

He says-

Seven and something inches of pleasure. What is male sexuality. They have big dicks but don’t really have that impetus to please women. There is a very delicate balance and it captivates me, but what I should be doing is something I just don’t know. Personally, I feel as though I’m captivated by, like, pushing sexual boundries. The sex monster persists in all of us though we can find different compartments if we try hard enough but really if you just stick a dick in something warm and wet that does the trick. Have you heard the song “Pussy Monster” by Lil Wayne? It isn’t out of character. Come to think of it I should rehearse my realtionship with this man you’re in love with because he has some fraternal perversities. Maybe we should see how far this lamplumphump can go. BbBBBBEBEEEEEEEzzzzzzzzzepbumbusifunumumumumumumumumudeumumudeeeeumumummmmmmdidididldlllllleedidldldld refusal of certain pejorative proclivities. You are boring, as an afterthought and once I went to this strip club. I got a lot of attention but it seemed as though they were all just cougars waiting to circumscribe our cocks into a striptease. It makes me feel as though I’m reading Bataille and peeing all over her cunt, not hard enough? I could go for the ears, nose, and mouth? Yeah, that won’t do it for me at all, you’d have to be sleeping with white make-up on all over your face and tender thighs like a little chicken pie, eat it, eat that chicken potpie. They’re all crows and just waiting to be my brothers? Are you writing in code? Will I need a cipher? Perhaps your body would curve under my triangle, if you know what I mean. -Winks- Wait so tell me about these threesomes you’ve been in, I had no idea you were a bohemian kind of girl. He just would stare at me with these eyes that oozed cum, just admiring me. I think he might have been trying to impregnate me or penatrate me or something with his personality.