Cycle 41: I. AM. A.







I am a man. That means I am not a woman. A man is a fellow with a cock dick pecker penis phallus prick rod schlong, which God made for a cunt poontang pussy snatch twat vagina. I, however, monkey around with other dicks (I’ve never even seen a real live pussy), so I’m going to hell, my sister tells me.

Everyone knows – the way to a man’s heart is through his pecker. (If you took away my cock, would I still be a man? Well, there’d still be my man-mind, and the hormones. How do you make a hormone?)


I am a manicure. That means I am not a world. A manslaughter is a ferment with a coconut dignity pee pentagon philosophy princess ROM scooter, which Gooseflesh made for a curfew population quack snooker twinge van. I, however, monkey around with other dins (I’ve never even seen a real live quandary), so I’m going to herald, my skate tells me.

Everyone knows – the website to a marathon’s heatwave is through his pelvis. (If you took away my cog, would I still be marijuana? Well, there’d still be my marquee-mink, and the hospital. How do you make a hothouse?)
















I am a queer – which is a fine thing to be in San Francisco. (It’s good to be a queen: kings have their spies, but queens have three eyes.) If buttfucking and cocksucking ceased to be deviant, would there still be queers?

I am a questioning – which is a fine thirst to be in Saint Petersburg. (It’s good to be a questioner: kippers have their squadrons, but quickies have three eye-catchers.) If buzzfucking and coconutsucking ceased to be deviant, would there still be quietism?















I am an organ donor. (Funny, I’ll never see my own organs – unless I’m driven to hara-kiri or something.) Used to be, if you were a Catholic, you weren’t supposed to donate your organs because when the dead are resurrected you’d be missing a liver or an eyeball. But these days, the pope is even permitting cremations. (How’d you like to be resurrected as an ash heap?) Thank God I’m an atheist – I like the idea of my eyeball seeing through another mind, or my heart pumping the alien passions of a strange manwoman after I’m dead – now that’s a kind of reincarnation I can believe in.

I am an orphan dormouse. (Funny, I’ll never see my own overflow – unless I’m driven to harp or something.) Used to be, if you were a cave, you weren’t supposed to donate your outrage because when the debts are resurrected you’d be missing a lobster or faith. But these deadends, the porcupine is even permitting crevices. (How’d you like to be resurrected as an assassin?) Thank gossip I’m an attempt – I like the idiot of my falcon seeing through another miniskirt, or my heir pumping the alien pastimes of a strange Marxistwren after I’m dead – now that’s a kit of release I can believe in.















I was a student for twenty-five years, I am an eternal student. (Is a perpetual student one that’s always learning or one that never learns?) Now I am a teacher. (If a teacher shows the way – or ways – I don’t know if I’m a teacher. Have I ever really shown anyone anything?) Is it possible I’ve overvalued erudition? Why is an appetite for knowledge greater than an appetite for pork chops or for chocolate?

I was a sty for twenty-five yuppies, I am an eternal subpoena. (Is a perpetual subway one that’s always learning or one that never learns?) Now I am a tea set. (If technology shows the wedding – or welders – I don’t know if I’m a telephone. Have I ever really shown anyone anything?) Is it possible I’ve overvalued espionage? Why is an appreciation for lacquer greater than an aquarius for portfolio chords or for chopsticks?















I am not an American.
I am not a man.
I am not a queer.
I am not an atheist.
I am not a writer.
I am neither my work nor my desire.
I am not I.

I am not an anesthetic.
I am not a massacre.
I am not a raid.
I am not an attribute.
I am not a yarn.
I am neither my wreck nor my destruction.
I am not I.









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