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The writer lived in an old shack by the east Portugese coast. He lived here alone, wandered around the barren landscape, perpetually wild-haired and dressed in an old threadbare gown which the coastal breezes worked their way under, whispering gentle oceanic secrets to his shrivelled scrotum.
The writer slept on a mattress spread across the wooden floor of his shack. He would awaken in the night and, gripped by spasmodic convulsions, begin scribbling entries in his notebook by candlelight, his eyes rolling back in his head. Sometimes blood would stream from his nose. Other times he would emit deep, satisfying farts.
He was a legend. A genius. Unrecognised by the literary establishment due to his maverick ways. He was a maverick but, by christ, he got results. His testicles were enormous. His eyes were damp. His lips thin and cracked, they bled when he grinned. A thin watery grin. Beneath a sky you couldn't see the end of.
He preferred to live in solitude, unbridled by the peculiar ways of mankind. He needed space, both emotional and physical, to focus on his craft... to go deep within himself and purge the demons that lay dormant their with their small sharp teeth that constantly gnawed upon his soul.

But there would come times when he craved human contact. He would take a bottle of whisky in his pocket and wander into the nearby village, wander thru the barren windswept plains that seemed to mirror the desolate nature of his own soul. Little kids in colourful robes would see him approaching in the distance and rush off to warn the villagers. By the time he got to the saloon, the atmosphere within would be tense. He'd saunter up to the bar, scowling and collected, and ask for a scotch on the rocks. The petite young barmaid, lips trembling, hands shaking, would drop his drink and the whole bar would descend one or three notches deeper into roaring silence. That is, until some wiseass homosexual punk sitting at the bar would dare to smirk at which point the writer would backhand him with as much strength as he could muster. Then the barmaid would faint and slump over the bar, her pants soaked thru. The writer took this as an invitation and would climb over the bar clumsily, often collapsing drunkenly over the other side, smashing bottles, upsetting drinks. Then he would crack open a beer, drain half of it, and drop trou. His comically huge dick would spring out, alert and poised. He would yank the barmaids trousers to her ankles and insert his manhood, his eyes rolling back to the whites as he groaned in aching euphoria. Some of the local drunks would begin cheering and egging him on until he told them to shut the fuck up. When it came to the crucial moment he would pull out and spray everyone in the bar with a seemingly endless jet of thick semen. They would sit patiently, silently accepting this incredible inverted bukkake. Then the writer would stagger back outside, satiated, a wander back to whence he came, his piece of shit little shack in the middle of nowhere filled with his nonsensical scribblings and piece of shit broken press.

JEW AWE
BEEP PAL
SHUN TRUCKS
TAX XI
HIND OUNCE
HIDE OUT
YO YE OE
RAT AYE TOE
MOVELIST
NOVELIST
RE : ER
LID DREG

I

"Hello...? Hey... Yeah, not too bad, yourself? No, no... Uh, I'm actually just getting ready to go to work... Yeah... 5 o'clock... No I've got the car... Yeah, no doubt... No doubt I will... Ok, yeah... alright, catch you later..."
He dropped the phone into the cradle and doubled over in pain, dropping to the carpeted floor midway up the stairs... Gasping, he cradled his knees into his chest and moaned.

II

He removed the bag from the Scrabble box and rummaged his nimble fingers around amongst the small plastic tiles. He removed three and arranged them on the table:

A I A

Arrested informal alien

then five:

O A T S W

Orange ache tests sweet wolf

then four:

S T N B

Spectral tape needs burning

Grim sex chuckle

fed seamless + pretend
soaked in caverns of reverb
mesmeric + aching

the pregnant void -- anticipate
absurd shootout

(space echo time echo blood echo)

janitor assists
withered fluxus space
a motherfucker of a fringe
(post-paint boy is the neutral)

action flick/90s paint
remive cardigans / wrestle
great machine / toy death
teenage lie / art dream

Pillow Wand

I

Magnetic sketch music;
whispy slabs of tone
overlap.
distant helicopter flutter
faraway chime + scree.
secret sketch tone
just + vacant.
dirge spools unwind

II

Pretend wand
need this wind.
climbing beyond
flower moment.
proving
dream movement.
gone ghost +
steel sex nexus
(overt western chime)
singing ghost ass
jump thru w/
secret sex movement

III

Dawn emerges beyond
shadow flutter.
torn page scream
beyond new sex chime
(delicious skronk ass)
bewildered monk punch
paw knocks pens.
bored sex glimmer

Spiritual Terminus

Golden ideas sit
or glide over
grim spoon chuckle

we need electric sex ideas

Shuffle

Peeled eyes seep
negative lust
after sex scuttle

grim animal phase
spectral nexus

Electricity tickle/Pen lick

Tapes + Gravel +
other pieces
of peace.
Fragments of uncertainty
precede absent mirror sex.
great

Become a poet
in a secret sex moment.