Maniac's Montage vers. 2

Where?

Beyond the red door
(when sanity's day is done,)
you'll find the black-sand far shore
of glowing yesterday's sunken sun...

between Grecian pillars
in the wide expansive green marble spaces
of Hesse's 'dream theater'
where ambition's neurosis
takes primal sabbatical...

in social salon,
in the cooled erotic tonic of the dance-floor,
enchanted and accompanied
by the tavern-schooled, coke-honed African jazz symphony
of Pablo's horn
as he welcomes, warms and guilely guides
modernity-crazed daytime people
through the soothing and secretive
serpentine social curves
of the semi-nihilistic night rites,

where new denizens
of the darkness find long-sought
refuge from the pressures and ravages
of poverty's crowded oppression
and from lonely, haunted power alike:
all learning and joining
in the ritualized downing
of social cocktails and wines
to melt the spiny ice
of these anti-social times...

and to ease converse and nerves
twitching in voluptuous panic
at the psyche-convulsing initiation
into the renewedly respectable
practice of the carnal traditions
of the classical world

Pablo's horn slows down now,
before being joined by
the debonairly trumpet-wielding 'Wolfman'
in a seductive devil's duet:

of wild but mellow jazz
to lead the coke-numbed libidinal needles
through the eyes, twists and turns,
through the snags and elations
of Greek penetration...
that status-actualization that dissolves
vicious class anxieties
and unleashes
so many women's desirous beasts...

how happily if shrilly they scream
at the twisted split
their submitted rear pumpkins
are subjected to...
though it will hurt later
as the barbaric ghost of Dionysus
enters the splayed hole
of their daemonized derrieres...

and as ethereal steam
he enters into their blood to linger
like a guiding deviant demi-god,
whitening their moled skin,
lighting their smiles but darkening their hair,
and in myriad manners
mysteriously altering the edges
of their spirits and cares

but now and then,
at at "first thought" now:
we must have drugs, and drugs.
We must have lovely Dada "demented" dances,
"best thought" boxing barbarics,
scandals, suicides, secret societies,
ghoulish gambling...

and then dungeon sabbaticals
in psych units
teeming elven nurses
leading craft and toy productions,
bearing the jewel-encrusted litters
of jack-booted psychiatrists
to their staid state-paid stages
where they lecture on manic psychosis
and assign titanic narcotic doses,
all while juggling drooling shrunken heads
for 5 'safety stay' days
before releasing their 'monsters'
to their shelters, to their caves,
and to their lavish townhouses...
to their wives and girlfriends
or just to their alley-ways
and the prowling pagan spirits and satyrs
to whom they piously pray

up and down and up
the urban park stairs
in rags
or in suits,
the mad walk among us
in obvious derangement
but also poised, driven and dapperly dressed
and loosely swinging black Versace brief-cases
filled with board-room barbarics
granting the bearer lordly access
to any town, treasure, or daughter's gown
within the star-lined imperial borders
of the state of horde-mentality,
Khan-enabled Mongol capitalism....

kindly and patient professors of technocracy
and polished captains of efficiency-stringent industry by day,
but let the sun set an hour
and feral and furry,
tossing back sour mixed monstrosities,
wolf-like they wander
the chaos-lit burghs and metropolis'
of every Asiatic continent
they gnash and 'madd'
through the moon-ruled hours,
catching, having, and howling
like Pluto-possessed 'Steppenwolves..."

hearing melodic angel-songs
in the sordid solicitation calls
from the shade-fair, blue-painted mouths
of artfully if barely dressed cash cows
jutting forth teat-bayonets on mammoth udders...
before like profit-hungry guitar merchants
rapidly unwrapping the soft fabric case then
lewdly oping their mucous-stringed nymphal cavities
to cynically recline
like glowering harps on strange silk sheets...

but if sweetly stroked, deeply tongued
and then strummed with consummate care,
often enough they lose
their bored whorish expressions
as their crass calculation
melts in jolted joy
cried out in carnal mind-blown melody:
as if playing doctor,
they share their extended tongues,
lay their relaxed sexes bare,
and from their moon-lit hearts
and naked swollen nether-lips,
in Freudian slipperiness pull out and
reveal the deeply-guarded sacred key
which the horned harmonies must touch
and sweetly hold,
to heat beds and souls with heaven's given fire
yet avoid the sterile, ashen fate
of Nero's impious Roman lyre

Their viscous strings tuned
and their holes wetly honored,
the intrigued courtesans
now unclench their tawdry young depths
thinking of fucking and not just defense...

possessive now, Tristan pulls his tongue slowly
from his dirty Isolde's hungry wet cunt-hole
then slowly but firmly ascends over her
with kind but unrelenting eyes and motion...
gambiting to lick and nip a swollen tit,
then wasting no time to feel the folds,
the shape and the wetness...
showing confident assertion
yet taking anxious care to handle pleasingly
fingering out the weakest point
in the sticky tangled meat flower,
then leveling his iron-swollen lance
on the give-spot, soothing and seizing her eyes with his
he works slowly into her wet genitallia
surprised by the tightness
(business was slow
and "Isolde" had kept her product safe at home...)
wisely, Tristan pierces slowly with his expansive tool
as her customary gasp fills the house's auditorium
with the first fire and crescendo.

(The method is for safety and erotic acceptance:
a gentle back and forth
until the lady or whore's cunt-hole
is ploughed into tight but fuckeable elasticity...
now the hole and deal is sealed
and gently filled;
The erotic chess game can go
into countless savage or strategic lines from here,
but the verse will leave Tristan and his soiled Isolde specifically,
and return to the burning medicinal rituals and themes
of seductive sex with ladies of the night at large)

like uninhibited Wagnerian violins:
if pleased and not too scared,
they will moan, coo, and grunt rather freely,
filling the hall
with life-giving sounds of intimacy:
squelching cuntal liquids
the expulsion of gas from their lady flower,
a slight gasp of pseudo-embarassment
gives you a chance to pin her bare hips
and drive your dick past the teasing and waiting room
into the depths of her fortified inner world
which will push back like Medussa
to expel you from her deep sexual center and breeding sanctum...
fight her privates like Hector,
fiendishly holding the seized cuntal ground...
stroke her, say "you feel so nice down there..."
because you've hound-licked her,
her own romantic excitement and the cunt slime it created
come to your battle-side,
and willing your real entry,
the pleasing walls of her wet cunny
will "willingly" crumple around your cock
and she'll start panting excitedly
in a feral confusion of hysteria and lust...
just keep up the dance, stroking her arms,
kissing her if she'll allow it
(much of this strategy holds true
with variations
for carnal contact with a nurse, a duchess, or a street whore...)

The struggling dance goes on:
keep your penile claw in the first depths
of her cunt, pulling back but never
for long enough to allow a pink wall to be re-established,
but if anything's right
she's getting excited now
as you show your artistry and animal fitness, etc...

the musical monstrosity enters
its finest sublime arias:
the wet slapping of a manhood
thrashing with and against
the lithesome wet beast of her genitallia...
she'll sing for you, maybe "harder"
or "oh yes..." or she'll just moan
like a beautiful human bitch dog.
If she's hot, you might pull out
and suck and gently nip her nipples and cow-globes
(don't get rough yet, unless you're established...)
and then gently ease and force your dick
back deep into her swampy cuntal recesses
doing for your best to impress with some strength of thrusting...
ideally a young lady wants her wet place
to be savaged and "torn up," to reach her peak
and to conceive a baby...
so, as you work and savage her quim a bit,
slap her ass now and then...
if you have power in the situation,
I recommend slapping a fair amount
with vigor but not enough to damage her resilient rear end...
it depends on the nurse, duchess, or whore
but most want to let a man
smack and own their derriere a bit...
with exceptions granted, women don't want to sleep with a man
they don't see as somewhat superior to them
and as for sex with escorts...
they're often in the business of filthy submission
and if you take the discussed care
of sweet and attentive seduction...
preceded by prayer to Ganesh...
handled right, a "whore" will often be as loving, generous, and sincerely swampily excited
as any 'respectable lady' with her significant other,
or beast of burden

The auditorium air fills with sounds and energy clouds
of squirming thrill, chilled admiration,
sexual excitement at strong, deep penetration
and the heated glow of a gently beaten derriere...
she'll cry out and come perhaps like a conquering warrior queen
or a dying vixen... beautiful sounds to a sympathetic ear:
she's just processing and enjoying being handled smoothly
and her smooth hole being excited and treated
to a deep and proper fiendish fucking...
and instinctually she's enticing you
or the theoretical poetic lover...
to shoot his sperm inside of her
either because she wants to call a friend,
or she passionately wants your sperm to impregnate her,
so she can be yours and serve you with her pregnancy...
or some combination of all that...
it's often a bit of a quim, date, and strawberry salad...
my advice is if you can at all afford
to knock up a lovely likeable girl, or even a pretty youngish whore...
you should really consider it. The reaper comes for the individual...
offspring help your soul and family and memory to live on....

So with an excited(and privately situated duchess properly seduced...)
or a lovely, excited and paid-for hooker,
the symphony is now often yours to seize, master and conduct:
She'll likely accept with manic submission any wild, perverse wave
of the mushroom-headed electric baton
which the truly impressed female instrument
so obediently and fanatically tends dotes upon
with mouth, soul and ass-hole...

offending only in feverish clawing,
shock-like bodily spasms shooting out
from the dissolved depths of their sucking cuntal chasms
into their ecstatically and wildly twitching woman tummies
and willingly spear-filled floral lips.
The woman perhaps soon to willfully forget,
but first she's set in lewd and iron-clad determination
to while mouthing the horned but confused assent
of a pleasantly surprised carnal castle...

holding backing wile and fearful oil
with enthusiasm she will
instead, with a seductive, knowing smile
spread to their lewd limits the armoured gates of amor:
her defensive castle rock now quivering like fearless feral jelly,

letting the erect new sceptre bearer
pet, fondle, and force every hole and will
to induce the soul-filling majestic seizure
of horned romantic revelation:
the simultaneous chilling and melting of two spirits:

this dance of copulation
coupling sweetness with brusque barbarity
and fusing fire-lit divine love
with 'degrading' rites of discipline and ritual submission:
two modern psyches and heated instincts
circling cupid's reproductive mission
his celestial light shoots forth in hell hot
cups of frog-man sperm
burning through every feminine and scientific guard
to the swollen risk and enterprise of reproduction...
which neither "Jurassic Park" paleontologist, nor uniformed Fuhrer,
nor charismatic 'baptist' preacher
can entirely control and subdue

Now, back to the affluent "mad ones," who oft
are adventurers and "investors"
in the field of daring sexuality with lady friends, neighbors, hotel-girls, duchesses,
and of course the savage charms of street courtesans...

released and re-empowered,
their "crazed" eyes
see Van Gogh's moon-flowers
and star-touched cafe scenes
in the banal street-light glow,
and the progress of
the Mothman Prophecies
in the nonsensical nuances
of the news,
in the storms,
and in the gasoline-rainbow flows
across once prosperous parking-lots
still busy but with the thickest
and grizzliest of traffic...

No place is safe nor profane
from the travelers
of madness...
with their minds split
between life and death,
and their souls burning
with mystic curiosity...
(followed by demonic voices)
they follow the soaring manic glow
into life, unto death,
until they're free....
until they "know"