Transvestite Love Machine
a poem? a short story? or something else? by Wolf Larsen
Warning: if you are allergic to sex please stop reading now. You have been warned.
I pull all of my manifestoes out of the buttocks of Andre Breton.
I pull waffles out of your eyes, and I masturbate outer space all over the sheets. I discover tropical islands floating on the ceiling... I reach into the anus of the reader and I pull out thousands of human faces all babbling incessant sculpture at me.
I **** English literature into a new Armageddon where the adjectives are entrances into vaginas, and where the nouns are slashing & slashing across your faces. The verbs are all hiding in your testicles waiting for you to impregnate your own mother.
Somehow, literature floats out of itself and becomes millions of other things... Somehow, our testicles are converted into factories of 21st century literature. Not even the birds know where to go. Because the sky has become a rectangle in a poem — because the poem has swirled itself into a mural on a wall that never ends — a wall of monsters that crash through your brains...
When all of the orangutans & apes are picking your brains up off the ground you can thank the Poet. Yesterday, when you were receiving a blow job from a strange man in an abandoned building you felt all the walls & ceilings & floors becoming different murals where different brains painted all their universes...
In each of these universes verbs fly around the nouns — and the nouns grow into seas of sexual desire. Everyone’s vagina has become a sun in the sky. Everyone’s penis has become the atomic button. Perhaps tomorrow ancient Egyptian civilization will grow everywhere like a contagious moss.
Maybe when you wake up in the morning you’ll be black, or Korean, or maybe you’ll be white again. It’s all up to the words in my poems. The words in my poems decide everything. The words in my poems create everything. Everything you see around you was created by a poem of mine.
Copyright 2015 by Wolf Larsen
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