i masturbate as thoughts run all over my brain and press down on the vibrator more for the strange electrical sensation than for pleasure, it seems to help me concentrate, and i focus in on blowjobs and have a silent discussion with myself on the topic of dominance and think about some men who have shoved cock down my throat and then the ones who have been on the receiving end of mine and that seems far more submissive and it’s a double standard and i come to terms with it then come in another way to a totally different thought.

creativity begins to bursts like too much water in a balloon and after the video shoot and over shrimp dumplings Thrash tells us about his blowdart fetish and when he gets shot in the ass the blood drips down his thighs and calves like back seamed stockings and i think about latex squeaking in an ear and that evening wasabi hits the roof of her mouth and eyes water and i ask if her nostrils burn and later the four of us dance to eighties music and Scooter shakes her perfect ass on stage and LLoyd shakes his pink poodle head to the beat of a different drum and we say our good byes and i walk humid city streets which are quiet due to the lateness of the evening and backstage at another venue thick velvet curtains and we three watch each other pee and soon a hula hooper cuts ice cream cake which reminds me of angels and we sing to her husband and i am surrounded by eccentric talent and make portraits in my head and end scene back at the Box seated on the steps of the stage and watch a woman fly in the air by her hair white paint on her face and arms spinning with both stoicism and grace and i turn my head to smile at Darlinda then look up and kiss the sky.

a street cone sits on top of a fire hydrant tipping its hat as i pass and next to it a tree smells like semen and the roses planted around its trunk are plastic and when i bend down and discover this i feel fooled and it gives me youth. the sun hits the rock and my eyes at the same time and sets on the river and the waves and the city scape naturally lit and i cream and i dream on the past which is now at a safe distance and the inside of my head is very still and calm and the moment is so perfect that i wish a bird would fly over my head and shit on it for good luck.

he went to a rum house to drink scotch and we rock paper scissors best out of three and Mexican it is and chicken mole burrito and veggie fajitas and fingers licked and outside lightness comes from the darkness the moon hazes through opaque tights and it is beautiful and inside hands and knees read from a book Daddies who fuck babygirls on trains in dressing rooms and grind on familiar canvas and lick my calves lick my thighs lick inside lick higher higher lick sweet panties wet and drippy and the sides of the fabric move towards each other exposing glistening folds which little kitten can lick too and birthday desserts come unannounced and creamy frosting takes the cake.

Southern Indian food for thought and a broken train has me waiting with headphones on and a row of patient passengers whose heads briefly wave and pop over the tracks eyes towards the light at the end of the tunnel and i watch it act out rhythmically and join in every now and again and a boy in a cape and floppy boots catches my eye and he looks high and i can’t stop staring as he switches and shifts the black fabric around his upper body and as he walks by i wonder what he smells like and it’s pleasant like some sort of oil and the next day a dear friend brings his boyfriend over and it is the caped one from the night before beside the train tracks like a magic trick and they sit on the couch and drink green tea and he uses permanent markers to make temporary tattoos on the tops of his hands and Mona wears brass knuckles almost every time that i see her.

at the Box in a box at the top in a corner red velvet curtains drape over the sides and another birthday in a leather kilt and a tight white dress sits next and the show goes on beneath a dominatrix rubs whipped cream on her tits and pussy and a leather dog masked slave devours and glass upon glass of spiked watermelon juice takes my mind off of thinking and an aerial artist in fishnets hangs from a rope with her legs split and soon after a text on his knees kissing and crawling and my toes tickle his tonsils and steady myself on a tall arm crowded streets spill onto patches of memory and later eggs and potatoes put things into perspective and once awake i decide enough thinking and say good bye to a Marshmallow and stick a doughnut into my mouth instead and it sits perched on my tongue consistent and reliable and i bite in with conviction and it bites back and the feeling is mutual.

…an enlightened heightened place that i used to feel when i was a little girl where i was still on the outside and internally shaking with excitement for life’s endless possibilities and almost makes me feel bored with everything because the feeling is so intense like an ongoing orgasm or really good sneeze and my skin gets in the way of all this bigness inside and it makes me feel high and beautiful which goes to show how strong the power of self is.

in the city on the corner in a restaurant attached to a bar that is empty with a jukebox that is full of good music which is loud and plays a song i want to know we eat baklava which tastes like wonderbread soaked in honey and drink coffee which is black and lavender daisies in a vase on blue and white checkered plastic and i laugh till i cry hold a napkin in my hand to wipe them dry until i laugh again and this continues for a while and i wake up in the middle of the night with a full bladder and a right wet eye and wonder if i broke my tear duct with all that laughing and fall back into a satisfyingly deep sleep.

lips upon folds upon legs upon spreads and the man wearing a black eyepatch serves us tequila over the bar and three sets of legs dangle from stools and we discuss tribbing in detail and tribadism derives from a greek word which means “a woman who practises unnatural vice with herself or with other women” and Marie Antoinette was known to be a tribade and tribbed her vulva against some tasty cakes of the court and our pirate brings another round and she tells us she can torture nipples and whip a cock simultaneously but has never been able to rub her belly and pat her head at the same time and i get a good visual from this and back to tribbing and the night before in an incandescently lit bar we talk of community and oysters and Spain and Lisbon and a David Lynch song plays in the background and a memory hits me and friends meet friends and the streets are so busy it seems as if a concert just let out and chicken and rice and the sun is bright and they don’t have shades on their windows which forces me awake early and i put on last night’s shoes and head out into the morning and eat cubed watermelon with my fingers and pass shadows shaped as whales and an ice cream truck garage filled with pastel candy vehicles which sit silently in the large dank space the only light comes from the open garage door and it seems unfair to have these sugar coated tanks of happiness living in such dreary headquarters and i think orphanage and across the way a woman in a long white wig with bangs and a school girl outfit and thigh highs with bows on each side and big plastic sunglasses briskly walks by like the Mad Hatter and i cannot decide whether she is going to or coming from and i think about sunflower patches in Tuscany and tulip petals and soon lukewarm coffee in my hand sit and space out on the man across from me whose breakfast reminds me of Europe and i’m jealous of his croissant and piss and cum and ballerina pink and the birds eat their seeds from the plate that hangs in the garden and i can stand at my window and stare at this for hours.

life is art and we take off our shoes and eat conversation and talk food amongst ginger tea and pear juice and i brush the bottom of my bare foot against a soft matt and look down only to find a dirty napkin and kick it to the side but don’t pick it up and iron pots which sizzle and steam and i watch and listen collectively and wooden spoons and crossfire conversations on Kathmandu and vaporizers meld into chat stew and afterwards the four of us walk up 32nd street and the sidewalk is narrow and dense on the right garbage night brings row upon row of trash in bags and pots of a different sort steaming from the ground of the street and on the left brightly lit Korean restaurants packed tight and neon signs and men smoke next to doorways and he mentions they have good short ribs at this one and it feels like Science Fiction and for a second i forget where i am which city which country which planet i am walking through and once i do am grateful this is the place that i call home.