Hurt Me Daddy, for I Have Blogged

The first one I called the Rose. He reminded me of the magenta-purple rosebush and the aqua-blue stone. He had a way of looking sidelong at humanity. Always a little laugh, always a little bully. I think at times we were frightened of each other, and jumped back from the electrical charge. He worked with his hands. He wasn't the **** I was and it made me sad. The next one so Saturnine. Outlook so pessimistic, but only from his love of depressants. Quiet palette. I have been working so hard on what you told me, he said. I missed getting elbows-deep in it, he said. He was as if psychedelia had a photonegative. I wanted his drug trips down in all media. I wanted a multimedia presentation. Multi multi. Now I know what those rainbow prisms were for. If I listened quietly, I knew what he was doing and he would confess to me... "I am making ****." Yes, I would like one for my birthday. The third was really really married this time. Not even "getting a divorce." The...

Liturgy, Written by the Satanic Prostitute, Carnie Whore, Mistress of Night Town Vibrate Ascension, Bringers of Light. For we are the denizens of Night Town. I am the proudest prostitute, the most cheerful flesh-peddler. Stir not the stew of broken dreams, for I am the fleshpot of survival. In what murderous universe did we stumble? The Medic-Punk Seraph guides the listening, the choking and the already-deceased. There was silence in my house. He and She had their own secret language. For 62 years. Their god, Love, had secret names. MOST INEFFABLE NAMES. Prey to the glory of cupidity, of faithful, thrifty marriage in clean beds. Electronically, I passed him secret notes. Our own attitudinal names. No comment. No comic. This could go on forever, it would have no end, it would be as if I could love you until I died or just got fed up with you. Flash to me in my bed again, taking clients. Oh yes, I am always a sex worker in these stories. Wonder not, my parts don’t work prope...