My little pussy came imagining your cock inside the magic of a word—Dada—which has you sucking my nipples. I can hear it. Your unforeseen is of no importance to us, you forever tell me. Your sound fulminates against 1, 2, 3 as you fly into my rage with your hawk penis, your pink hair disseminating little abcs, your big abcs singing. Push outward until your cock starts bleeding absolute and irrefutable evidence of arousal beyond release. I can’t wait to sniff your novelties, to resemble life until I’m done with your cock and can get God. His existence was previously proven on the head of your cock with my tongue as I cleaned it. Wheedling words to impose my ABC into you, I let go a leopard in the form of a crystalbuffmadonna in the dark. I felt like I was drowning in a sea, my bare legs advertising the ardent sterile the air I slurped. Before you, my large cunt lacked sympathy, demonstrating a naive je m’enfoutisme. My brain was a cause, and need itself felt obsolete. Now my brain leaves scum all over your cock, as I ponder its simplicity, its novelty. We are human when it acts up, so vibrant it crucifies boredom. At the crossroad thinking of you, I feel like I should stick for year in a forest and write manifestos in meaningless languages. Then I’ll lie down and spasm until there are stalactites everywhere, melting, and I’m holding onto the hares of angels. Dada, I feel so fucking close to you again, I feel so luxurious. No longer do I distrust unity—not with your big stalk of seaweed bobbing around my theory. Cubists and futurists, in your hands, turn lime-green colored like art, like money. Cajoling long distances, I feel you swirl though my assonance, all the currencies and inflexions you’re breathing into me, like I’m a dead man All groups of artists have arrived to cook our heads. They bring goats and various comets—the doors to arousal. They bring cushions and good things to eat, and my cunt flops around your bed like a beached whale. I’m looking at an object Cézanne painted using a cup of your cock for leverage. I’m looking from above as you conscientiously arrange your cock. It’s lilting to the side, sleeping, so I hurl my body through profound laws of matter to establish I can get you off. I keep up the same movement—success—your cock hardens like a fucking Redwood. I just want to sit here with you among the force lines. This does not prevent swamps or relatively human products from working their limits, from piling up meaning until beauty is dead. Still, I kneel gaily beside you, sigh and smile stupidly, a tortured individual waiting to serve. And then we fuck, vaulted through racing atmospheres. As your hand moves across my body, I feel objectively once and for all that criticism is nothing but a small water pistol that men use to separate themselves. The critic just stands there dripping instead of shooting, not having found the psychic base common to your stomach, penis, balls. I fuck you undercover with broad benevolent wings and both of us come to life, I fuck you from order into brain-eating chaos. All my principles get stirred up, loving you. Our neighbor’s hypocrisy is put asleep when we start flopping, no longer acceptable for it embraces wickedness. Now that I have my right hand cupped around the base of your purified mankind, I don’t speak, only reach for your balls. Kneeling before you here, I have no right to drag others into my river. My cunt is comfortable, and my tits practice their art in their own way, known through orgasm after orgasm. I can’t shake your layers, or that other joy of waiting for you to plant yourself inside me. I can’t keep my pussy off you dick, Dear. In principle I am against manifestoes—we puppies, we fuck slugs, we fuck toys measure the value of every phrase in cranberries. The desire that is dripping out of you was invented by impressionists. As I write this you suck my nipples, moving contrary actions together while one with my vulnerable breast. Does continuous contradiction affirm that my lips will close around the head of your cock? Do explain because I hate common sense. Do you wanna fuck our brains out instead of wasting our time on words, Honey? If not, then don’t make me so fucking horny. My cumming is bacteriological whenever I’m stressed—or else it’s historical or psychological in origin. When you nurse me with your cock, I call it the tail of a holy cow, Dada. It calms me down, and each time I open my mouth I call out: Dada. I am closing both my lips around your hobby horse. Enjoy it. Every time you get hard, learned journalists regard it in your pants, reading it as the jesusescallingthelittlechildren of our day. I see in your eyes exactly how far from monotonous is our primitivism, our sensibilities toward nether holes. Our erogenous constructions converge on perfection.
Dodie Bellamy is an American novelist, essayist and editor, based in San Francisco. Associated with the New Narrative Movement, her most recent collection is When the Sick Rule the World, from Semiotext(e), 2015. In 2014 she published The TV Sutras with Ugly Duckling Presse, which Norman Fischer has described as “part porno, part memoir (maybe), part spiritual teaching (probably not), [and] part fiction.” Other books include the buddhist, The Letters of Mina Harker, Cunt Norton, and Cunt-Ups, which won the 2002 Firecracker Alternative Book Award for poetry.