down in me

We’re dying.

Once Trudl shopped for a happy vibration, a pretty sky blue. Make it prose, make me prose, no more poetry. Once Trudl shopped for a vibrating joyful, a lovely plaything, curvy smart waves. Light up. Serene. Blue. Did I mention blue? Old Trudl she needed a quick and hefty release like a block of ice forming torched. Once Trudl found the right one quickly she went astray. Held the thing in a fist pump like she might hold her own cock. It shook her senseless mechanically. STEP ONE Trudl places the shaft parallel to her slit and presses down on the mound. STEP TWO Trudl locks her fist around and grinds. STEP THREE the orgasm is ripped from Trudl’s clit. Trudl misses the light touch but there’s simply no time. Once Trudl never owned a clock.

even if
her stories
are longer
than mine

And then I thought
spurious!
with forsaken ground
here, beneath
the island of Wales
what is that, she says
who is that
I love to follow them
to the deadest
of ends

XXX SEE ANI SMITH NAKED!!! XXX

…

…

…

Made you look.

“Never give an interview, and never trust a wanker, sir!” —Chris Light

Alas, I am but a mere mortal and have succumbed to the scurrilous desires of the flaccid ego.

Jim Murdoch very kindly (and god knows why) asked me some questions. He was very serious about them, too. It was hard for me. At times I wished some smarter kids (Vaughan or maybe Jereme) were sitting next to me so I could copy their answers.

I think I sound stupid (cannae lie) and I feel very naked right now, so go on. Hug me close and tell me I’m still special. Tell me you’ll still want to see me again even though your mom says you got the milk for free.

I like vulvas which look
like they’re hiding something
folds that mock you

I like vulvas that smell
like rubber and honey sweat
labia that plump when you
tend to them

lying vulvas red be
like do not disturb me
 vulvae?

I am in the annual print anthology of Dogzplot Flash Fiction.

My little piece is going to rub itself all shameless upon the tender yummy bits of writers like Barry Graham, Sean Lovelace, Brandi Wells, Sam Pink, Mike Young, Robb Todd, and (my PIFFLE girl) xTx.

I am running around the house singing We’re in the Money, throwing handfuls of glitter confetti and looking for the lube.

[Seriously though, you should pre-order. Not because I’m in it - although I am - but because these guys, they care about you. They care about writing. They care about America.]

I interviewed Jimmy Chen for Jimmy Chen Week on Writers’ Bloc. We discussed miso soup, my feminine wiles and Cornish hen sex. It was so fucking hot.

>>

Muscular pain, misplaced files, sticky notes that don’t stick, low-flying planes, earworms slithering unbidden. Shady characters averting their eyes. Shit for breakfast. Pole fuckers. I mean of course, fuckers that are Poles. Italo-Greek fuckers. Dark fuckers emitting dark English sounds, beckoning Asian chicks to bed. Aussie fuckers loudly laughing. Leg splaying, body laying, money grubbing, whore displaying. Trite banal regurgitating. Shady dealing, eye averting, ungood karma having, art subverting. Blood boiling, stomach distending, life hating, population over-populating. Sweet smiles island swaying, it ain’t all bad. She says it ain’t all bad. It ain’t all bad, I go, no. It ain’t all bad.