[Device opened]
Come here gorgeous. We’re Back to the promised land. Salt of the virgin earth. “Warhol’s iPhone X” she is pretty back to fucntional. With her speaker lightend of semen and her screen cracked but projected optically adequate. God bless rice the elecrtonic life support. She’s even smiling in the LED light. I am pleased to announce the object of this whole discourse: My high tech wraparound trsnluscenet bluetinted fortrees and the retaining of my brides stripped bare.
Agaist the charge of the impersonal, of Zappa fiction, I plead:
A seen message from our heart’s bleeder as you well know, is worse than hatred. For we are so pained by the affornt to our taps and touch, that a seen means our desire is not merely away from reply, or otherwise dethroned of her device, but simply has no will to seek us out and will be scrolling away past our name instead. We are worse than unthought, for even the weather app never goes long without attention. We are lower than the misclicked clock or the overextedned soiree in the depths of the bluetooth settings. At least in a typing bublle we are assured that she is somewhere in the pitter patter and silver reverb of schorched nails on electric glass. In the seen, we are poor beggars of neglect and have not a recourse but to double down in silence.
My very favourite homosexual insomniac said “it has been said that silence is torture, capable of goading to madness the man is who condemned to it in a prison cell. But what an even greater torture than that of having to keep silence it is to have to endure the silence of the person one loves!” Now hardly in a nation of concrete emtoions could one betray admiration for this trenchant insight but the Pairisian points tot eh agony of silent ecstasy. Laced eagre without her message, left with her profiel in that small circle above the stacks and stacks of my coloured bubbles, dhe had me too lost for too little, silent in a room of one’s own.
If a soldier such as I salts any such grave, it is out of insane solace to pick out an appropriate follow up bump, to bring me back into her flavoured outreach. What microartform could best appease her silence with heroic return? What little paiting?
Her seen therefreo threw me into a vortex of extremities, and made her skin glisten with my thought. The intensity of her absence, short-circuited these fibres of function, these little planes of need, shuffling my visions, dreams, fictions, the words that stained the pages I read, spreading such a chaos through these fixtures of my life, that in recreating her for you now I have no choice but to demonstrate, this, the sound of my mind in her service. I am easily distracted.
New Keyboard. Search Emoji. Frequently Used. Her striaght neutral face (U+1F610) nonpussed brick wall inexpression unblinking on the flat lined grind of her lipped grin seeped singular in skepticism. Her hues swept aside all appeals, defeated emotion long ago and way up high on her crown she said “more” to indifference. Waht was I to do but make her a little prettier inestead of drowned on land with two blank lines and one long pole adorning the meagre circle of her grey eyed detachemnt?
Verified profile
My virtues
Job title: Auditor
Education level: Bachelor of Commerce
Religious beliefs: Atheist
Home town: Wellington
Politics: Liberal
Languages spoken: English
Dating intentions: Short-term relationship
Relationship type: Figuring out my relationship type
Regal furore has a habit of locating itself in the divinity of strange wry lips, where pinks cycle down faint plateaus, two articles of nigh pleasure, those lapses of brush control that escape the painter’s edit. Set Obsession. Were she marble, the bust of coy sight in the pre-leap of spring, I’d carve spates of her for a foreign gallery. Volume Up. If she were so brazen as to sway in the wind, I’d uproot the Earth scaling my own deforestation to catch her leaf in fall. No Template. I’d resign all my worldly fixations, sell my possessions, wick hatred from my wrists to become pure nothing for her. No Template. Would there be a transcript of her thought, I’d kill my father cut out my eyes and wander bleeding through the decaying kingdom to have her read it to me. No Template. She was a vicious beauty, blowing lisped temptations into my skull. No Template. Though her eyes split glaciers through my brain and her laugh a lick of spilt wine, so indecipherable were her lips that whole forums bid their interpretation. No Template.
In all affects I could not separate the purity of her process, the run of her light lisp, the little landing grounds that rose above when she smiled with my lies to her lips, from the effort of our misunderstanding, the weakness in me: a beggar before her image. It was not that she spoke words but that I could not catch them all.
There will be no response when you press and hold the side button. Copy Text. Copy Text. Way backk in the winter months I hit her with a wyd? and she sent hiiii with a bunch of I’s then heyy with a bunch of yyyyss. Paste Special Values Only.
“Let’s meet in 30 mins.”
Ripping my charger from its socket her images filling me with impulses her elipsis an enitre bedframe her fully encased assertions and imperatives and her whole gallery of emojis born in the deep regions I have infrequently freqeunted, prettied her vertical drops of bubble by bubble blowing bold blonde obssessions that I blew for information.
I can’t remember really anything that we discussed though I know it was melodic, faintly intellectual and sweet. She seemed a little too fearful of any kind of original thought, but there’s no shame in that when it comes from kindness.
Voiceover. Through the city we walked, I lied about Sylvia Plath. Flagged. But I have never lied about her (I had a need to speak her name to my friends and other sycophants if only to see her real in the faces around me, to hear her name, too scared to trust the visions of my thought). Do Not Sell Or Share My Information. I lusted like an ascetic, white knuckled. Bold Text. For I’d seen God. Bold Text. All is permitted in the temporary rhetoric of modern life. Bold Text. But have you ever fucked God? Delete Post.
Night Shift. Her breaths rose my infinity as we ascended the darkness, escaping the reverie off Cuba where we chased our spirits through the breathing lanes that gusted between the hillside heritage buildings. Dark Mode.
In the currents of black rain on my bedroom window, tweaks of blonde on blonde dared the candle light tinting depths of her nude. Turn On Incognito. Grins and tremours, palm to thigh like rubber band taken to teeth. Data Sharing. I could feel the touch of her intrigue escape me as I took off exploring the faint textures of the marks that moved the world on her hips. Astonished, in doubtful joy, I lived in mental apocalypse afraid I may be deluded, that I had cast in the mould of dream a phantom from touch deprivation. Image Hover. But when she held me, she closed her eyes and pulled me by the hair into the effervescence of the inner her, that sacred glare of peace, that present coiling charade of matter and physics, the end of humanity within her. She was living flesh that closed my thought in total extinction.
Hide Story And Live. The next evening, I was flying, pure form, unreasoned. In my frisson, I provoked mine own racing feeling: “It’ll take a long time to wring the blood from my mind. She saw these words run from my eyes and into my acts.” Post Hidden. All she was became all my mind all my words all my habits devoted to the second page of her truth. Adjust Brightness. How shiny all is in the ever-slipping new ! And yet, ecstatic in high lust, there is surely no place where one feels as horribly alone as in the arms of the Young-Girl. Watch This Page.
Wake Up. After a collection of nights, I said let’s remain alone in ruin, begged her to think with a lenient ear. She hushed me with a reflex of silence, her counsel an index of metals. Aeroplane Mode. I would pray to her needs, elitist fears that would escape all theorem in the days before she wept, those missed omens. Zoom In. Sensitive Content Output: Play Sound or Do Nothing? Speak. I fought on, lick by lick.
Your Activity. Carving keepsakes for her through the derelict city, walking deathlessly on that narrow width by the bus lane to feel her exhale in the swoosh of the traffic, I etched her into my skull, tormenting my frenzy to stop time and stitch the applause, the rhythm of our moonless fiascos, the summers of her gasps, into the second by second by second of the hours without her.
I made shadows of her in the puddles to lighten the gutters, practised poems for her in images on my screen, traced her geotags to conquer new worlds, analysed all our mutual friends for the sign of another fiend, trawled her playlists for my new audio history, a concept map of her soul where her art was concealed by my art, where her camera was my camera, where Pygmalion grew jealous of my moving scultpure.
It was not just her image but the text with which she would confirm my sight. You Do Not Currently Have Access To This Content. In these rampant states, still famished from mere pixels, I would find myself reading me into her stories, breaking language from her captions for these scenes. Apply & Open. In each tag was a new vision of her, an order of marble to smash my hammer against. Cite This Page. Such simple sentences, spelt over my screen, as “Me being me”, “Life lately,” “January dump” bled into my mind and made out of me an addict of her comment. Open Source Info. For what had she seen to speak in such way? Searching Please Wait. Where could I find that? Searching Please Wait. Even now I fashion totems out of her emojis which seem to be omens of her magnificence, in secret communication with my wonder. Please Wait A While. I couldn’t be sure that Odette was not home, and so I knocked on her window with 100 taps in my most desperate evenings.
Insert Music Link, Picture, Or Video. There’s a sequence on ‘Movement 6’ of Floating Points’ x Pharaoh Sanders’ x London Symphony Orchestra’s album, ‘Promises’ (2021), where the strings shiver acute and paranoid. Add To Playlist. At 8:29, the sound loses all focus. Add To Queue. (C) The inartistic are quick to call it “swelling” a collective chorus in unison when in fact each string is operating at the individual level, rejoicing a fury. Copy Song Link. (A flat) Each string spasms as if one has just swung its punch, another pressed enter, selected post, thudded block, deleted that contact. (E flat) It is hubris in impulse form, jaded and suspicious. Copy Song Link. The swing of the neck when the door handle sounds, and you are doing something rhythmic. Clear Browsing Data. (D) Each string does not feel “in control” and neglects the album’s precision. Embed Track. (G) We are left with a lust for higher intensity, the image of total collapse, the chaotic break from the album’s ordering seven note motif. Speaker Sounds. (C) The piece tempts a rebellious thought, in no way permitted by its actual constraints of sound, offering that speed run stream of life outside our physical bounds. Premium Discovery. (F) We look for a brick to abandon the peaceful protest, but it stunts, as if a coward entered the room and turned on the lights. (Reprise) Share Song Link.
Seek Forward. I demanded from her a possibility she could not consciously provide. Start editing. I had felt trapped in a surplus, the whole, the One. And I resented that her and I were operating merely in that riskless comfort without worship. Tap Control. I wanted her scraped, a mark of red on each of our arms, three scratches on my back. I needed her to run to me for asylum. Page Information. She gave a haughty air, to proud to reject that loathsome, puritan aversion to distortion. Inspect Element. She sought no aspiration, I needed no limit. Edit. Must the last light of infinity come with such a pointless subscription fee? Where was the experimental in shape form?
Insert Signature. On one night, she curled up in her denim skirt and shed the cold. Tap Warmth. Head tilted, her lips fashioned an unfamiliar expression, something reserved for someone surely not me. Pursed, fleetingly white, that oriflamme couple that guarded her tongue loaded me with forewarnings and cut my wishes into boundaries. But my mind had far abandoned her in search of novel need, wandering out in her profile picking words to paint her with tomorrow morning. I could see, or maybe can only see now in the endless Louvre of my keyboard, her lapses dangle from exasperated forwns she’d throw me as she spied my inattention.
Now the considered breaths she’d take as I met her at the foot of hill and then forge our nimble ascent would silence me into banal platitudes about her night, but then transform into mantic walls of sound in my prosaic solace, where I was free to rip her apart in my lust hunting the manic I hid within her. Empty Cart. Once, I stopped on false pretence to tie my lace just to see the motion of her hips rise above me free from the brutal obstructions of her manufactured words.
In our evenings, it tore at me that something so fragile would consent to a rigid grip of life so contrary to her painted form. It was not restraint from my own wondered characterisation, but that she walked head-first into the comfortable. Here she lathered herself in the friendly banalities of country news and the current thing, in rampant opinion and the new cancellation, in the latest gotcha on YuoTube tv and a new post for the story. Blank Presentation. That what I would see as serene, distorted and even to my shame, better, was bright and stale in the natural light of her presence. You Clicked This. One must remeber that Narcissus did not fall in love with himself, he was transfixed by the clarity of image.
What is the point of a situationship if not intensity unconquerable? Of orgies of paranoia? Of screaming each other’s names into screens? Of slaps and despair? Her timeframe was paralysis my mindframe was psychosis. We merely held a knife to each other’s jugular having pickedup prop blades. Two blonde-haired dead-eyed scent chasing skin tinted sexual prefaces having empty surveillance sex.
Pitch Change. My utopia, as they all do, started to reveal itself despotic. Orders and Payments. I neglected to tell her she was to rule me, simply handing her the sceptre and wagging my tail. Flouting her rationale I would cut in line and consult only her lips. How vacuous I became studying her image ! Add To Wish List. And on those Sundays, I lived off braille alone binging the night all over again, tracing the creases of my pillows, counting the black marks of my headboard, studying the curvature of her forgotten earring, collecting all these tender fragments of raw method, ancient runes, as proof of my transcribed delusions.
Hassled so brutally as she was for a single meagre rapier of insistent recognition, to hear in her voice a thought so violent in my mind as continuation, where she might crown me a fraught feudal star in her frugal court, my wet blanket disposition and words of madness forced her to pale all ceremony and settle merely for an idealistic interlocutor in an unwatched debate. Expand Message. I could not survive Plato’s child. She wanted a god, not the death of one.
End Call.
One night I got drunk at work, and from my desk insisted she accompany me to the city art gallery’s monthly evening showing, where we could play spot the cuckold and count up the leather clad vegans, and even if only ironically, consider the fall of modern art. Where loaded into looped videos, ‘visual art’ became no different to our suggested page, with its embarrassing fixation on pop-trauma (Now would you look at that, this video maker expereinced a brief depression. What a unique perception!). We could lament the insertion of identity as a proxy for vapid whims, and spy the abandonment of desire in the side effects of SSRIs, capital and inability. That desecration of the human in sickening preference for popular ideology (I soon learnt that if an ideology can be sung by an accounting firm it can be sung by an art gallery). Art indistinguishable from the bloated blobs of corporate memphis, those anoxic reductions of emotionless patreon-powered trite vomit. Art compliant with 12page funding dossiers and business cases. Art conceived as “trippy”. Or art, in the fantastically well thought out view of my more well meaning friends, as something “subjective” something completely equal to our very own “openions” and “perspective”. Well as I strolled the art gallery peering into deadfaces wrpped in muslin half blinded by a bunch of cheap rpojectors and strobe lights, I realised through involuntary voluntary memeory that art as, “personal expression”, is no art at all. That some idiot collecting online videos and some idiot critising bannas on the wall have a shared ignorance. For if your artform did not exist preior to the invention of the screen, then I have full recrouse to call it shit (source? I believe Proust said this vis-à-vis telephone calls with his Grandmama).
“Hey, thanks for the message, but I’m not really looking for anything right now. Having heaps of fun on these weekends though !”
Upload Your Own Reaction. Suffocated prostrate by the rapid assault of self critique all I could trace in the minimal real where the fine edges of her essence would float towards me and demand pure release in unread signs, was the immense reverie in the disjunct between the quick swipe between mere texts under her name, and the profile of her smile, the spiral memories, the screenshots of not merely all of her. Recent Changes. Her latest message was no match for her listed self characterisations and so I went seraching for so much lost time.
I found beauty in the heveltica neue that lined her work experience. I read philopshies in the names of her playlists. I stood in her family trip to australia smiling at her with the koala in her arms, as invisible as the upright lens. I saw her in the pink dress at her frist ball. I was every grain, every seed, every cut of granola swimming in the collour coordinated caochopany of her penut seed lined yoghurt in very nearly every one of her curated A?aí bowls. I was her summer throwback. I authroed all her inforgraphiscs, admired all her tags. I was the altered shutter spede on that wet winter night in her seasonal depression. I was the sunday comedown purchsed jewellery riased to the blue sky. But I went futher. I went in. I wandered into her tumblr diary reading with interest her late teens eating disaorder, as I would the letters of Madame de Sévigné. I knelt with my fist in the air right next her on the black civil square. I guided the stroke of her waercolour in her universoty flat’s wine and paint night. I was there on the hill in the symmetry of summer fireworks before her very first comedown, nnasal screaming to the spinal sky “I love my freinds!”. For I don’t min telling you lovesick reader, that I lived off her stories archiving myself into the entire heistory of her.
“All good no drams, thanks for letting me know !”
Your Battery’s Health Is Significantly Degraded.
You must know that we have the luxury and magnificent terror to stay put, convinced by the breathless pixels of preference, that what is present never leaked from those lips. Whole months could not be denied by them. But on these drunkard “up to?” rendezvous’, she persevered with tedious questions that concealed her image in a vacant understanding of me. In her comfort, she grew bolder with her speech not of substance, but of ruination. Whom had I seen? Where had work sent me this time? And what did I think of the podcast she sent me? I found it so easy to indulge her with placated stories of society; of the esotericism of the moon barman, of the sensuality of Good Boy’s sandwiches, of the honour of the Lambton juggler and his mute smile, never appreciating how trite the city was for me when her whole being was on trial in my mind. With each word she sacrificed an act, and diluted her presence into a corrupting bore, that I had to unravel in my solitary evenings reconstructing her epic in the clarity of her pixelated perfection.
More Warm. In every need to pin down what she was, I lost all conscience and fell prey to shear ease. Less Warm. I could not grapple with the banaliities I endured before her, preferring to take a hammer to my head and let them out nail by nail, word by word. More Warm. For him who kisses her forehead on the second hook up, is not a madman if he does so only to mine it for rare metals. Less Warm. I made her a slave pit to my assumption.
For I did not have desire for her but for the sand between her feet, the sweat on her arms, the hair in her teeth, the motion of her glance, the curl of her doubt, the travel and withdrawal of her eyes, the whisper of her inhale, the timbre of her lies, and every angle, breath and fear of her all at once in the ear-splitting touch and touch of lip and lip playing to conceive her speech.
I wanted to madden her, to hear her yell. I was jealous. I ahd never seen her grief. I had nver seen her pity. I wanted the virulent purity of her ectstasy for my life in her eyes.
I realsied now that pride never once bled from her smile, which forze in the superficila, in the same deadeyed freeze frame she fed to the other desperate profiles in that sunday spotlight hour. What she thoughtlessly diluted in her conception of herself as a fa?ade to be maintained, were bodies of movement firing off steaming machines of violent desire that she never allowed herself to comprehend. How many women have failed themselves in a comparison to a screen? Is there such a thing as a soft mirror?
The more I wrote the less I believed when she called upon me, the more futile I understood my task to be, and the more secretly happy I was to take my leave away in the recovery of my own mind, while she sat harsh and disappointingly present, and where I could roll out platitudes in spikes behind me, while running away to my own crafted sun.
Currently Ignoring.
On the night her father died, I messaged her “U up?”. Then bumped it. Called her (unanswered). Titled her cowardly, in trading my bark for silence. Asked her when she would she leave her delusion. That I had picked up every time she called in those winter evenings, and she gave me nothing just this once.
Please Wait A While. Searching, Please Wait. Search By Voice. Search By Image. Try Again. Notify Me. Please Wait A While. This Post Made Me Uncomfortable.
This May Take A Few Minutes…
New silence arrived sanitised. No inks turned in my mind. Had I known, it would have made no difference. So consuming was my aesthetic devotion that over our minor months I had never asked her even once for his name. My condolence card then placed all my obligated words in a distant vacuum. Nowhere were lush colours of emotion, my grip on written prayer was severed. My deadened hands left it all to the language model and added Weyes Blood’s cover of Dylan’s Low-Eyed Lady as a token of post-script grief. It would have been wiser to pick “Picture Me Better.”
I blamed her for her darkness. That she thought the analysis of alternative podcasts and their misreadings of Foucault were due my attention and not the severity of her private situation. I flew into a rage at the condemnation of “message seen”, now violated with a new kind of hopelessness.
I pictured her in a new dress of suffering, with frayed edges and the unkind colours of my confused mind. She was a new figment for the incomrpehensibel that opened my fears for hatred. Her smile in her 2019 thirstrap mocked me in that casual indifference of a passing pedestrain. The green dot on her profile picture taunted me with continued existence. Where was the calm serentity of my high devotion when she could exist outside of me, outside of my own entrapping social? And why did her conceept decide to obliterate my cognisance? What noumena denied my thought? By what right did she have to trmple my sanctuary?
After death, that phenomenon of first thought, that crops all sides of her own prism in my skull, the quick deceptions, the colours of instant feeling, the ones that conjured me against her, played in my nightly pilgrimage to her solitary name atop my search bar. Recent Search. In time, memory bleeds what was so brilliant and insurmountable in her immediate presence, into a thicker mix of anxieties, producing a latent plague of self-loathing where my mistteps were made clearer and my wriitng more arrogant. I seethed for having waved a white flag when she so warmly purchased my mind, mocked by my estatic nerve fibres, now chartered and rationalised, cosigned to the casuitry that ephermeality is the thirst of the frightened.
What was once steam dancing on molten aluminium that flayed my flesh, raging my screams searing me, are now great metallic anthills weighing the remembrance of my thought, organising the operation of my grey consciousness. 1h ago. Her concepts still linger on my pillow, every post, picture and profile the sharp image of her cheeks, lips, legs, silver neck locked and replayed over my 3am screen, but drained of all colour in the long days of inaction. About A Minute Ago. Steam became residue. 3s Ago. She left me in sweet lethargy, pitifully idle, conquered, full and poor.
For in ceasing my messaged cries to talk, that I was sorry, I started to prefer the blankness of our mute chat log. I needed her no longer, when I could retreat to her image and lighten it with the events of my life that never needed her. Her silence merged her form into the memory of other past situationships and so I gave her up, and lost myself in her inexistence, preferring to embrace my suffering as her pious priest, her loyal nihilist.
Reported.
Suggest Me Fewer Posts Like This.
As her lips start to fade in my mind I search again and again for her, still still, withered from her seen, gazing like Mr Ruskin over these paintings that would accompnay my plead, and I lie here rancid and weak staring to a void adorned with her name. There was a moemnt naked in her orchid. Her fruit, fruit of her.
Written prompts
Typical sunday: the scaries
The quickest way to my heart is: food
A fun fact I’m obsessed with: sleeping
This year I really want to: travel more
Let’s debate this topic: pineapple on pizza
I’m weirdly attracted to: men
One thing I can’t live without: coffee
Perks of dating me: cuddles
The best way to ask me out is by: asking me out
My biggest fear: parallel parking
Biggest risk I’ve taken: downloading this app
What I order for the table: tequila shots
It’s meant to be if: you can handle my sarcasm
Together we can: delete this app
The way to win me over is: make me laugh
New keyboard. New Emoji (U+1F348). New profile blonded with Sweeney’s hinderbergs down her fornt, just a little on the needy looking side. No matter back to back championships. How melonfruit of green earth made hentai can truly do wonder to yin and yangs is a whole new coupled cruixfix to my eyeful examiniaton.SHe had bird and liked Bob Dylan. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
Now not so much underscoring her persona but a crumb is enough for a scribe such as I.
She had bled her hair in a melting glowstick against her temples. Blonde pulled back by god or the rain. I have no idea what one could call blonde in the modern age, for some reason I have nearly aways been wrong. SO I will call it blonde though I have some logical inconsitenceis spitting doubts. Blonde on Blonde playing next: Blonde.
On halloween night one can truly expect a ceretain kind of hastily arranged encounter. Costumed to death pretensions are catered for, every one feels special when they wear the clothes of another. Joker, the amn himself, the hero of the iroderanged was litterally me in a suit and camel tie.. I think she was a Britney Spears in the throes of the #FreeBritney movement (a powerful escape from multimillionaire serfdom must be recognised). Plus she had on low rise jeans what a y2k blessing.
Lying there uNder her fairey lights she sent a incalcuable riddle striaght to my head: She said “Use Me!” when she let them (Ajax and Odysseus) hang. I had no response her spoils could not answer my philsophical consideration. “Use Me” What could this mean? I pondered under my new heaven. “Use Me?” an affirmation of consensual levelling up.? A female dailect shortchange of rough sex? A sort of war cry riased early on to know the discourse of the battle? Both a comamnd and a upplication? etymologically untraceable what a pcikele rick of an inegnus statemtebt. Pgilosphically I was as a ruined as the man holding hope for licks of insight from the stoics or that scume medium the podcast.
Stumped before twin stumps supple servants of the sexuate soocial senator. Honkers. Twin towers of the dualties of a decaying mepire. She had on her Leibniz’s binaries, dual monads. You see when one cups the thesis and antithesis in one’s left and right hand, or what the new scholars now call the abrstact and negative, well you see, metempsychosis and metaphyscis and metamorphoses and metatexts and metastatics and metallurgy and metphors and mnemosyne unleash me in morpheus melancholia moria. Here she had two tips of Dua Lipa’s body, without organs mainlinimig eudaimonia into my dopaminefried senses, and well you see it took all my will to power to conisder the synthetic a priori in my high (Eros) drive need to breed the end of histroy insider her.
“USe Me” was it the name of a liidianl band I once saw in Valhalla before they let in the astmatics?“Use Me” had she been the angel I would see in my childhood epileictic fits when I would see visisons on my ceiling? “Use Me” did she want a madder madman? “Use Me” in my legal understanding, did this consittue as a two part offer and acceptance that binded our spit chake proto-prositutional contracctual cunninliguist? “Use Me” a petty trick? a sleeper agent acitvation phrase? Were 500 hundred fresh faced officers of the police state about to raid our sexuate private protest and burn the plrayground to ground? “Use Me” the mantra of the neo-capitalist cybernetic order? The slogan of the technocracy? the system cannot exist to satisfy human needs, was she dangling the inhimane? “Use Me” the post revoltionary caste in charge of tech support? “Use Me” with two torepdos fatso and Lil Uzi flying at me I was sitting in a mental hiroshima with those two perfect tits sucking me in the face.
Her bird queaked and eureka abrubted, aha !“Use Me” must be a shrewd use of the biblical prophetic perfect tense. SHe was following Paul John Luke and RIngo before us all, foreseeing that it was so inevatibale in her rebound from her basket case ex that this slip, slop, slap and kiss was a permanent as a stick and poke. For she was in fact describing a futre event so certain to happen that she was refferring to it in the past tense. I was out fo there by morning was I? So I better use her. I was using her. SHe id not want me to use her she simply said “Use Me”. She knew that I would stamp her down under my wrists float a few brusque slaps and explode myself in manic spasms for 2 mins tops then blwo smoke out her window to guide me home with raging pelvis and a slightly hot but not spicy penile shaft never to see her again. sexy sphinx! And so I piekcer her up threw her high and threw a couple fingers previosuly in abandon between her legs, still moist from the juices of her slit, straight down our mouth. I PAtted her labia thinking it the clitoris blowing a bit of air on her thighs biting her arm and draiing her armpits of all their sweat with an overeagre smelling tongue.I used me all over her. I evern used me on me in the second round crossfire (by the time I made it to conference finals I was simply out of juice). And in the sickly emptiness of her stickie sheets surrounded by amythysts a frigtheing salt monolith catanoic cacti the uncracked spines of a few Sally Rooneys those devil plants perched white on the plastic desk ledge the most ornate of mirrors and teddy bear named george, I realise “Use Me” meant used me use me. Here’s your throat back thanks for the loan. Afer that radio silence. Onto the next.
My vitals
Name: (U+1F610) /(U+1F348)/(U+1F913)/(U+1F911)
Gender: Female
Pronouns: She/Her
Sexuality: Prefer not to say
Age: 22
Height: 170cm
Location: Newtown
Ethnicity: White/Caucasian
Children: Don’t have children
Family plans: Not sure
Covid vaccine: Vaccinated
Pets: Cat
Zodiac sign: Aries
New Keyboard. Frequently Used. New Emoji (U+1F348). Next up: englassed needful intellgiet bespectacled SaintLoup monocled medical student flsuhed a temptress far smarter than I, very biting and extremely unkind, still fucked the sense out of me after the second or third lock down. She had the cans of Mr William Tretheway’s bronze Kuramārōtini (I have cricled the wharewaka three times on my lunchbreak to study Mr Tretheway’s eye for sub-claviclean contraposto coupled cupped curvature).
I, a wasp in her orchid, grinded violently all my senses into a vicious battlement that cut my hands tongue eues and heart from their conceptiosns of feeling breaking the structure of thought that accompanied those oh so precious metanarratives of romance. She had stripped me raw and fucked me blind, leaving me walking down Cuba with a little bit of swagger in the side to side of my digital cane. I even heel clicked over the lgbt crossing to celebrate the motion of her screams in the desolation of my wirithing mind.
I had begun my hunt as my woman’s prey.
Because unfortunately for me while she was was shoulders knewes and toes under me she was three brains beyond me. So tiny was she that I strted loking for her in my phone when she start inquisitions I had never foresaw. She knew my mind and the game was lost from there. For instance she asked me for my political credentials like some sort of scultural revolutionary. I’m apolitical ! Now I’ll hazard a guess that the man trained in the arts of the law and writing the fiction you see is a flat out deciver of a higher order, but she also knew that.
To cope with this enigma I intensified my online research and conjured up a data colleciton process of such depth, that when we conversed intermittently I not merely hinted the entire plot of A Little Life (2015) (as seen in her 2019 memories) as a supreme triumph of modern masculinity, and suggestive of a readership so intelelctual yet fundametnally caringed my way into the most exquisite SSRI laced thigh slapped noise of a quite clearly social woman. I had even reluctntly at first, careful to let her speak and offer no sense of strng opinions, practically presenting myself as a devoted piece of playdough, looked her lngingly in the eyes, held her hand, and from my deepest larynx voiced that her passion for environmentalism was representative of a problem solely capable of being solved by women and girls-that-invested my way into the desperate embrace of squaky clean overachiever who pulled my hair inthe streak of nails upon my verterbrae. I even cited Bell Hooks and produced a rigoruosu Kapital-lite-like dianosis of the material conditions of the genedr paygap.
SH efucked a little funny but so do I and so I mainly enjoyed the sound of my own voice speking up to the dark. In these ruminations I made sure to mention I had 6 sisters, volunteered for tree planting events, surfed on the south coast, and had at least one gay friend (I was there when he came out). Talylor swift a champion and brunch a wondeful invention. Annd Ahhh oh yeah the geneder paygap !
She was black haired and had soul sucking megre eyes that kind of paled in any swarm of bright light, but smoked side eyed in the low light. She peered in a sway of rational ingenious, just caught a little hopeless betwen her mind and soul. You see I swiped this one forma thristrap that sunk armies. SHe was a banned artform. A new surrealism. A fluid state. A pseudo-sacred psectacle. The poor monarchies fukced their way through incest for a thousand years and as soon as they are put to the guillotine, feminine hypochondria, corrputed body image and a pictorial amrket of infinite substituability present themselves. A worthy feudal loss I’m afriad, under any primitive sociological anlaysis.
We seemed to share a love of data in our brief escapes of forehead to forehead and so she invited me to the socialist society. It was here that I broke my policy of non-intervention but only on the premise of an intellectually physical curiosity.As I watched her sculpted drop of peach filling her jeans ascend the squaky creeks of the narrow leather skuffed stairs, I thought to myself, ‘if I were to die on this platform, I should be so lucky to be the Patroclus of those perfect cheeks’. I considered her smllaness to be a qhip of cream. And WHile these urban marxians floated around th esignature board, I couldn’t be sure my Venus Callipyge wouldn’t float away without my hand on her thigh.
Now, you must understand that these meetings are miserable affairs. for one everybody there is ugly’s ugly cousin and for two nobody has any plans to overthrow parliament without first signing off on wheelchair acesss.
But alas alas digessions. Her examination came in waves:
Had I been enamored with Jacinda ?
A: Of course.
DId I think the tino ranagtiratanga was compatible with capitalism ?
A: Of course not.
Wohich would be worse to die a nihilist or a neo-national socialist ?
A: If on home soil, a neo-national socialist. If on the more ancient plains of philsoophical thought, then I err to professor Walter Sobchak that the the national socialist strikes the open minded as “an ethos”.
WOuld I shoot a man for an idea?
A: Yes but the question is mute as I have not a foggy notion of going about bearing arms.
Name fiver jewish folk!
A: Spinoza, Rembrandt, Proust, Leopold Bloom, Laura Nyro, Moshe Dayan, Natalie Portman, Adam Silver, Netanyahoo.
Largest item of theft?
A: Teh golden bucket of the Cuba St bucket fountain as part of a conspiracy, but in isolation the career of an aspiring painter (I pointed out artificial intellgience).
Worst film interpreation?
A: Videodrome (1983) is a roamnce..
Best literary interpretation?
A: Johnathan Swift can’t hold a candle to @dril.
Current antichrist?
A: Phone screen facing upwards on the tabel.
Menatla health pick me up?
A: Princess Bay lunchtime skinny dip.
Been in a fihgt?
A: Once slew a linecutter while cutting the line after a line, stole his bloodiued vape.
Celebrity crush?
A: Walking places.
Believe in love?
A: Of courese but love is hysteria honey, afutile potency.
Guilty pleasure?
A: Lcing bread with sedatives and feeding the sea gulls.
Best great walk or hiking trail in New Zealnd?
A: Mt kau kau base camp flying fox.
Companies you could comandeer to coca cola status?
A: Foodstuffs North Island Limited, Foodstuffs South Island Limited Woolworths New Zealand Limited (hmmnnnnn how to run a duomonopoly selling human necessities, seems extremely dificult ot me !).
Life’s regret?
A: Never holding my appendix to the light in hand.
Fabourite amphetamine?
A: Caffeine.
Most porfound hour?
A: 4AM.
Best bookshop?
A: The Viking’s Haul for verse, Pegasus Books for prose, Book Hound for thought.
Best place to break up at?
A: Circa theatre final call for play.
If you were a refugee from what culture?
A: Sea people.
Favourite bar?
A: Quaint, neatly liberal Newtown Sportsbar (Ask for the cranberry juice).
Regualtio you would axe?
A: Drink driving, I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy.
Reguation you would arises?
A: Age limit on politcial enfranchsiement set at 65 (after that who cares).
Meal to impress a potential spouse?
A: Fairy bread.
Fashion faux pas?
A: Apple watch, looks like a cock ring.
Tastiest native bird?
A: Tūi breast slow roasted with gravy.
death or resurrection?
A: Death.
Underarms bolwed?
A: Nineteen.
Most disappointing colour?
A: Cerise.
Virginity lost to?
A: Sally Seashells against the fornt railing of the pre-rennovated Te Papa Earhtquake House on Anzac Day (“it was like trying to walk on jelly!”).
Longest friendship?
A: 12 years, broke it last week.
Selfesteem reliant on?
A: Shortform video content and infographics of multi thousand year phenomenologicoinformaticomnitemporanthroluminoheteronecroendoeschatogeoteleosociolibidinoeconomicokairopoliticoschizochronotopographicoethnotheologicothanatropicodigitocommodificotechnologico history.
Mortal enemny?
A: Man.
Creature of choice?
A: The bodies upon bodies of furries piled up in fornt of the anime store (for those who shout “gross” I encourage you to track your mental illness).
Tuatara supernova intelectual stronghold opinon?
A: This text has you still reading and that is rare.
Volumes of responsbility?
A: Neglected.
Deplorables?
A: No headphone commuters, in fact all commuters who look depressed.
Death camp assigned duty?
A: Stand up comic.
Favourite chapter?
A: The Grand Inquisitor.
By all accounts the exam was faield but I never plagiarised. Her turn:
Had she been enamured with Jacinda?
A: “Have we ever had such leader? SHe was breastfeeding while containing a contagion. She put this country on the map and I think we’re sall startting to go a bit mad with our irrelevance. It’s a travesty ! Because athough you’ll find no one admitting it, more than anything else we new zealnders crave international relevance. I know the newsrooms publish those fictious passport rankings monthly like Martin Luther’s theses but have you ever heard a swandry disagree with a yankie voice? Every high school teachercoach is speaking the quueens. We’re triple colonised because it gives us pākehā a sense of meaning. It’s a travesty !
She brought us to the world and saved both you and I’s grandma. Look how it wen toverseas. It’s like nobody thinks saving people — Human lives — is a good idea anymore. Human lives. It’s a travesty !
And socially, she made it all free and fun. And yes she could ocnsdescend but you only had to search her name, still search it now, to find out the underbelly of scum that forced her into remission. Irnnically, the very same trolls voted for her in 2020 and that is what they can’t live with. You had nats voting labour to stop the greens ! That’s power.
You might think she resigned but she was silenced. It’s a travesty ! And as a woman I don’t think you can undertand what it means to lead a man in this country. You don’t speak, you moan and worship money and famrland and code and piss. You’d sell your future for a starting 15 of your own design. You’d burn a native forest to fund a bach. You try drown your thoughts in can after can and find your worst hatreds knwo how to swim.
Youre uncomplicated whether you’re a tradie or policy writer.. Ervery bro whtinks he’s the hardest and every mate thinks hes the smartest. Which is why you chop the poppies of you own imaginatnio too scared to actually do anytihgn constructive.
This is why she scrapped the capital gains tax. Keep you happy while she cleans the house. and while you “upper middle calss” law students say whatabout whatabout whatbout like you ever cared about weath shifts, she gave out free tertiary educaiton and enacted — diluted — but still enacted the first notable steps twoards spaces of tino rangtiratnaga. You’d think water would be a good place to start but three waters now that’s too scary. What’s next a police state? It’s pretty easy to say she never implemeted when you get 8 years for flag debates and well publicesed tax cuts. She put a collar on WInnie gave him the caretaker role for a few months, gave birth, and then came back and stopped the spread of a catastropic one in one hundred year virus and got a supermajority.
But after a while you lads, you blokes, got greedy sending her deepfakes across your groupchats, whining worse than facebok spinsters. And having been shut out of mentiong her name around your girlfirends always wondering why they were silent when you regurgitated the steaming pile of vitriol in her mnetions, you clicked your heels together and jeered her away.
Ever seen the rugby fans beating the Apartheid portestors in Merata Mita’s ‘Patu!’ (1983)? They were jealous of the cops ! And that’s the truth: Inside all of you is an insane cop threatened by any woman. You blamed her for the world cups and living costs while grabbing your gf by the hair and dowsing her in tears after every all blacks loss.
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“You would’ve bricked her windsheild if you could get in range. There’s no one else lieke her and you’ll keep ridiculing her to your grave becuase you can’t see beyond your prejudice. Kindness and life, only a man would reply with a knife.”
“I’m holding out hope for Chl?e Swarbrick.”
“And tell me do you think she’ll have it any easier?”
[ghosted]
New Keyboard. Frequently Used. New Emoji (U+1F913).
I hope to have my wirting described as “Tinderesque”: instant perversion from all sides but slightly out of a sight. Her pious eyes were watery, I ahd sought practical advice, she a vent and validation. Curt lisps, hair turned frank, she was a headache arriving late with wine down its fornt. She had money in her eyes with glitter lips and some kind of corporate degradation in her economic tongue. A little older a little wiser stunned with grins she, the novo riche poltiical artist who painted in the sapre time of her fahter’s rent payment, looked for a cure in my hands.
In my two years in theft of public service, I never once shook the hand of a woman satisfactorily fucked. Anxious eyelids, emotional detachment, whole spirals of whispered affrimations in secret cubicles (the trans bathroom is always free) and a pre-meeting sos meltown (“I am confident” “I am worth listening to” “I am not having a panic attack”) deprived them of that need.
Some local literary loser will “exclaim” the “beatufiul sanctuary” trasnforms “slowly and then all at once” into “a prison”. That double the median wage and air conidditoning will strip a woman down to jasmine teas, clouded mugs, walking shoes, morning runs, chaffed lips, puffer pants, weather wathing, negelected or rmapant makeup (no inbetween), the effort of a tote bag, oversized shirts, and the permant crazed fixture of absoutel unceasing pity pouring from hollow cheeks and buns so tight you could call them analar.
But you smash a crisis of responsbilities before a woman winning bread for twenty men a year, and the shortform commandments of girlbossing her way to financial freedom in new televisedbig budget pornogrpahy or truecrim or coloured infogrpahics against the maddening primal yearns for sun kissed palatial devotion and then you sandwich that with the unhidden lusting stares of a married manager with coffee breath and his friday evning work drinks declarations of love followed by performance reviews in which she is called to be more “assertive” and “inituitive” and it all becomes imporssible. She is organiser of all food related events, convenor of charitable intitives, “you look different” at the work events, policeman for social occassions, shouting board for out of touch adcisors, counsel for the dunces recently out of love and above all the new mother of all vulnerable new graduates and lost souls who can’t yet divorce themselves of their basic empathy at the hinnt of a coin.
The most typical public servant is a 44-year-old white woman who makes $84,800 a year and has 17 days of annual leave owing. Her name is hsortened by a manager to remind him of a studentential fling. We call her “rach” “em” “soph” to make her a pet instead of a grossly overqualifier, intelligent, overachiver. We make her play Iago while I play Desdemona with my pretty eyes closed, fluttering into payrises while she panics into the confimement of “needs to build confidence to imporve team presence”. These are the girls, those annoying girls, who just don’t get the boys club and get put on project scheudling or hunior staff emotional support year after year whule the new scholar who plays a bit of code and can’t save a pdf is put on interntional engagements for his fake laughter and office chat banter. These are the girls we crucify for asking for a csmidgeon of understanding when the pervy comment is called a complement and who worry about their obssessors loathing them for friendzones and friendly social questions when they drop by unanncaounced at their work. For we call these women feminists and after that we kill them for sport, and we love them for it because we suck the protest out of their existence. And if that doesn’t work we pay them less and tell them to fuck off. “You look better that way.” But yep just loosen up a bit in light of this please girls. Give us a smile. Simple as.
My vices
Drinking: No
Smoking: No
Marijuana: No
Drugs: No
In breaking new ground she left little notes in my bag, “keeep it up”, “you seem a littledown” “we all love your hard work” “coffee in 5?”. She’d rescue a few kiwifruit, the good green sour skinned prickly ones, and drop them in incresaingly brazen deliveries of her hipsways down thee runway to my corner of the dloorplan. On fridays she’d sit on my desk and pick through my notes. In moments of stress iw ould shut everything down and sketch scens from Ovid across my notebooks or release as many words as I could think of in a ten minute period and she, with a little touch of conern, would note them fold them in the glitter of her bracelet and walk vertical out my view with her hair a little ruffled.
She started leaving her loyalty across the resideu of my worst wfh jokes, adorining her love reacts over my most tediouos porject team chats ruminations. I learnt through other whispers that she staked her territory and payed off her competiion in threat laced coffee walks. In the anxious there is always obssession of an incalcualble variety, that soemitmes betrayed her in rapid moments. For in my presentaions she would lean with both hands closed to her reddening cheeks whie I looked at the wall above her and teassed her with my most grating indifference.
List all the wthings she worrried about. She worried about the moon blowing up, the pandas dying, the heaviness of her footsteps, the bias of her media, the rising frequency of her tears. She worried over isaraeli based humus suppliers, walking home at night, her gym stalker, the contamination of herpes, of undergrinning and overyepping, her menstrual cycle and tje ovalular moons, her expoentneial obligations and the possible futures of her boss’ unthought but soon to be considered relfections on the shadows of his imagination. She worried about her gay man’s drinking, her family’s political dvide, her gabling addict brother, her early developing sister and the big one, you know the big earthquake that is supposed to raze the entire city in any possible second of any possible day. She knew hand on heart every conceivable metric of charatered health and considered the SSRI sideffects to be her fault. She contemplated thedigtial dark age in her third coffee, and corporate death every seven and one half mintues. She spent a speedread on the earthquake hazard notice of the bar we picked for false pretence after afterwork drinks (virgin mojito and my absinthe (heaven is a fascist regime)). She all-good-if-notted her noose regualrly and but for brunch and female compassion she would have made me consider her worries and mine. She could barely see straight, with so much worry pinching her skin. When she looked at fireworks, she would watch the black space for fire.
She whispered in such a high pitch that sometimes I just spoke a response by interprting the motion of her eyebrows and she would be too worried to say no. I grew cuorage through quiet mockery calling her writng perfect and her colour coded organiation beautiful, her neatly deivded calendar a feat of clear eyed claculus. I assure you in my wealth, education, nepotism and most importantly the skin of my white, that there are few alive among my generation who can cliam to walk with such privilege. But its takes privilege to know privilege and so I lit her into laughter.
This baroness of Taylor Swift, a little voyeuristic for her very own eye in her very own pleasure in her very own dirty mirror, folded beneath me when I said I considerde the gravitas of the modern women to be grossly unappreciated, and so we netwroked our way into a sweaty lbidinoeconomic aphasiacal locked stalls. On thursdays our bosses were bsent, along with half the office. Her worry was so intense that her excitement was the only method out of mental collapse, and so we had a secret morning stand up fucks every other avaiable waork day. She would pack perfumes for both of us, as we walked to the morning tea 5 miittues apart 10 metres in nasal diametre. She even shceduled them in my outbox calendar which I then costsed to the ministry of education.
And If you were to have peered from the crack in the trans batheroom stall, you would see a a tongue slave murdered by the devil’s very own leather clad tax collector. If you were to knock and wiat 30 seconds, you would see this author and ms liquid worry exchange indifference over a steel drink bottle.
In my corporate espionage under and over her messages and emails I could weave so malicious tesaes that she had to fuck me to shut up. Which is a special kind of godstatus.
Hey! you cucked balding renting impotent surviving and now cooking cleaning notevenbreadwining, “I’ll check in with the misso” screen slave: the most wild of your impulses, the absolute wonder of your highest dreams, your zoned out disasscoiated sexual phantasia, were merely my thursday monring commutes, which festered by nightfall to feature the most complex of plots worthy of the most radical work of the 21st centruy. You see there are women who crave a fuck no matter how sloppy and I have seen too many yards of smut on the piles of best sellers to neglect this crisis.
Just for you girls. I let her slap me then scrape me then all of a sudden in her violent organsation I was ordering my own room using versace all uder my rists. I had santiary rpoducts for her on command. I had the pillow placed under her with precision. I listneed to her moan, and folowed her as her ratouille rascal. She coached me to coach her, to talk her through it. all of it. I made sure to have dark chocalte on hand for her crmps, a green juice in the fridge, and even bought a teddy bear name Timothée from tiktiok for her mild but cute hysterias as I lay there and listened to her indoor plant care and financial advice.
The only setback or unmet key performance indicator was my ambition. I received 15 recommendations a scpnnd after I listed the inlcimaiton to the literary life. SHe htough thsi a fate wortse than death and urged me to forget it all and keep building capital incase of recession. But aside from this, I had her driven back bright and early and imost importnatly zero acknoweldgement of our relations within any public setting. Ibn fact I never even adder her on instagram.
In reward she consolidated my punishments into a bizzare narcosiss. At nightfall, she slapped me in teh face if my licks were not adequate and studded her acrylics with tufts of my hair if she felt any northbound movement prior to the 30 minute mark. I spent years with my tongue in her as her gothic prince, her soft skin, her jingoist. She crowned me names babyboy and worthless and brute and slugger and cumslut and whiplas and girlchild in the dark. She gave me bells and scars made me ms countess of her queendom. She had me wrthing in withdrawa pleading promises and brutal breaths of pleaseplease trhough sour eyes and panic. In her weak bony wrists was a deathgrip reserved for cruel denial that scraping acryliphallic torture. This is no homage, she dealt out messianic worhsip to a higher holy trinity of her, her toy and her toyboy.
Becuase the misery was worse still. You may have detected shrewdly my beloved reader, that this is a faintly technological text. That I have soemthing of a technological predisposition. Let’s call it here. I am waving the white flag. For an ego mighty as mine, was brought low as mere thrid party to her saitisfyer pro, her pleasure wand. You see my tongue was ancilirary to that bastard’s supremacy. We all revere chat gpt. we all stick a finger in the wind and say singularoty. we all watch auteur aftre auteru build his own robot girlfirend. My brothers no need to make a film we lost the war years ago, that satisfyer outperforms the organic penis ten fold and twice long. Bite the bullet, and pack yoursef a new tool. You’re both welcome.
I left in her I hope a higher paradise when I quite simply could not keep to her pace. She’s somehwere up there advising cabinet with triple my salary and no doubt carvign more desprate tombstoms. I will be the frist to admit, I took a fiancial loss in losing her kindly skin but I still enjoy her painting, just at the distance of a ghost follow.
Who else mong the japanese microartforms was there? I w\once almost punctured my lung going upside down with the bulimic peach (U+1F351) I caught in aprofile saying “short term for a lucky one”. I vacuumed a netballer (U+1F64B) who towered over me refining my footwork as we amashed my bedbase while switching to canine and woke up the whole house. I ate the bidding of vapist (U+1F4A8) a little on the nose for my liking but she called me ‘pretty’ to her groupchat. And if I rember thorugh the crowd there was a fuckme eyed (U+1F440) beautician I fetched from the marketplace for a discount on what she never wanted to be a lonely birthday. I let her be my slef-worth by treating her like a charger nursing her back from 1% and even complemented her photoediting.
But the only problem with the infinite scroll is that the girls keep appearing. Fall in love again adn aagain. Fall in love again adn aagain. Fall in love again adn aagain. Fall in love again adn aagain. Fall in love again adn aagain. Fall in love again adn aagain. Fall in love again adn aagain. Fall in love again adn aagain.
Again adn aagain.
Again adn
Again.
Again
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