Author: I.E. quineie

INHERIT 

When you support me and I have my days free to fuck at will, I in an unformulated stacking give you an affixed divergence, belated misremembering components there or not, my remodeling to inherit and take, a discourse so provided, discursive to get, all simple and patterned. Accordingly, your refounded, unutterable program leaves it still misaligned, faded as not there, but do speak and mis-revise while you invariably consume alternatives to disclose what you cannot pose. You are in custody to self and I would take and promise an aggravated adherence to set edge to hear more, for so listed wets to a smile and I no redeem as it alone gets. But, I give what I give transferred as at most an image burdened with prospects to take your advertisement  — this engagement — with comprehensively familiar coordinates that I will follow, those vestiges to a prospectus, just a synopsis designed to expedite the take. You charge the misconstrued as homage to the fool family adherent to accommodate extensions to conclude as in “give me dead or alive” while I inherit more fuck time and you inherited the impossibility to digress, even rewrote the tangle in a moral manners stir, with my evaluative disgust, fuck and all.

INSTANTIATE

Sensitivity is easy to proclaim and show, even when qualified as “poetic sensitivity,” no special achievement, just expected, and always resting in an instantiated condition posing as means to self-knowing. Never liked this simple man, this poet guy, she thought, with his impressionistic moves to closure, narratives that always ended in imprecisions’ attributes, just pulled structureless gears, a cloaked self-applause in that humane veiled empathy stuff — not a big deal and does not know it. She wants to cut his finger off, she further considered: hold down that hand and cut away and make him bite that detached finger’s nail. Show me how you supplement that nail crunch simultaneously with your want to fuck. You write me a poem and confuse ability with a meditative soul procedural that swaddles sentiment while fending off your fuck wants, just a linguistic stall, a preposition that carries no variables.

OVERACHIEVER

This infracted positioning is not stated, for it would end if acknowledged, and rest in contempt, colluded to the disallowed, determined by the word’s design, an ensemble that awaits the accommodating fall, if suggested, but I am mute to you my merchant love, while you sell what is not in stock, as your ascendancy has no disability to affirm your unstated hyperbolic emphasis. Such a sexy undercover opposition, patched and shared in forged diligence, but not even that. When you hold me, you take focus and dismiss what prefigured the precarious resting, an imprint at the outset that takes initiative in my heat, not extinguished, not conceptualized, but shaped in a paradox convenient to doubt: how can I not see the naming your grasp discloses and how unaided I stay at most blindly intended; and how unsparing a withering self spells assessments incubated before dislocated discourse.

AXIOLOGY

She, once again, saw in his searching gaze the impossibility for him to get hard and she hated him for it, since replacements were not available, but she acknowledged that the scarcity of new sex partners allowed a definitive numerical reality.  Furthermore, she knew axiological searches resting in a misread continuum of prolonged deliberations provided him with unfolding assumptions that stayed in an accepted and needed cloudy finality, no way in conjunction to the absolute casting of his sexual prowess. Yet, his convenient compressed state amazed her, its comprehensive stall, a closure awaiting the insurgency, bedded in axiological diligence, quick nods, primary moves, the centrality of it all carried by preferences, featured acceptations inadvertently rendered to her to further understand “her keep at it man.” She knew value worth rests still, while presenting no taint, modeled at nothing, but a concerted “moral upheaval value stridden determinate,” a stipulative definition in a collective hold, but it was more, for his fixation made her hot, this dumb, blatant, search happy, no-fuck tease.

COMPLAIN

You are your complaints, a terrain, and, therefore, unknowingly and imperiously have no room to emerge, for they are insistent, coordinated to their self-sustained presence, in fact, immune to any outside sensibility; you are totality invoked by your own perimeter, my opposition lover who is an unprecedented corollary to initiatives’ impossibilities, my attraction so subsisted by the ubiquity of  your intrusion contoured fold, a curiosity that gets me horny from its disabling push, quickened as undifferentiated object, harnessed by what prevails, suggestive in my “object-fuck” predilection.

I now recognize the verbal misconstruction I render, formed and mirrored as a contiguous complaint to you, actually a collaborative efficacy, this attempt to a materiality, obdurately trenchant, initially believed ascendent, always held, however, to reestablishment — object to object, but never even partially consonant to emerge critically. 

There are no contingencies, nor empiricist forms in your complaint roll to disable. Valuations belie distinctions, but all complaint boundaries are fuck and fuck, or I form fuck want in an irradiated austerity, a special valuation as my complaint has an indiscriminate aim when displacement fills nothing, but my complaint to yours.

WIT

You cannot work on it and there are no schools on any level to aid you to understand the importance of the lack you exude and how it furthers my contempt — consistent with my discontent — a condition portending a contraction of any prowess I have to explain to you the contours you miss, but when it comes to being a bad fuck, my proffered pattern improvement fuck mechanics frames you and your imprecations.

Wit is indigenous to wit, no procedural curricular definition dilution can be applicable. It takes its own winks to wink back; it stays intact by its own rapidity, paradoxically stagnant as maintained in a cause/result one-step unit. Wit is thought-on-a-roll, a could-be-counterfeit that can validate solely by its originality, a self-contained kink want, wit, my pussy inducer, a “Wit my clit,” “Do it again” repetitive rigor. 

And yet, if witnessed it shuts replies, pinions possibilities, a ceaseless constraint that makes one supine in a designed docility framed in a geometric awe that echoes nothing — this contained heat and fear in a no chance dispatch — but the term “wit,” as found here.

CRAVEN

Nothing served as a context to associate your craven approach to a constituency for validation; that missing backup formed an assignation that got me hot as in the uniqueness of how nothingness dauntingly provides. My consequent perverted heat should agitate me as a self-betrayer, but I have no dispiriting acknowledgement based on any retentive thoughts. You don’t even ramble, but you do present a furthered indifference in the form of reaction, but “indifference” is not the correct word, leaving the condition hanging. I cannot accuse you of suppressed allegations that would serve as a cause to your and my skeletal run. All rests while emerging as an unfair application wrecked by adding what at best seems missing. 

Our pleasure is bandaged conspiratorially and that component stays as such in tangential structures never more than clouded. Not to do, not knowing to even do persuasively reconstitutes a reiterated unnamed indulgence where anything goes and the conventions ventured err as just talk. To be focused on a ghost renderer gives a state of ease, a custodial cuff that mandates no balance for me to certify.

KITCHEN

When you suggested making kitchen space for a washer and dryer, I considered your consolidation proposal and wondered if you would be snug within either machine and be open to hide and seek as you vibrate or rotate — an unattainable quaintness regarded in a bedraggled sufficiently dismissive spin. Kitchen, naturally, reclaims nothing, nor did I approach it with a quantifiable frame, but I must have, thereafter, a diffracted regionally held disgust — the twinge that keeps me at it. 

The kitchen counter, with a pelvic height matching your groin, concentrated and sheathed while enveloped with a versatility that does nothing but tease and throw want for me to draw a disguised presence upon marble.

This stuff was understood, nothing to extract, no indelicacy, not a deterrent, could even be referred to as a promptitude of misguided assumptions based on utility space, basic cooking area so observed. You can roll and rinse and I dry or switch it, this rueful machinery in clutch before my intensified start, but actually only entangled by the measured presentability distinctly allotted.

REVENGE

There is no amplitude in my call, and any paraphernalia gives no backup, for you remain as I call you, “Revenge,” solely a notion that comes as a title, conclusively framed, but as a belief to inquiry to lack of clarity, not encumbered, no singularity, only so much heat and want when I say “revenge,” a literal push to further my wetness. “My revenge fucker,” she thought —  transparent separation to consent, so easily enveloped by the pronouncement’s frequency and the corollary’s solitude in no symmetry. 

Revenge sleeps alone without blanket and waits for her, launched by no reasoned lassitude. Revenge rests without appraisal. She thought, “I cut him with my titling and I engross him in irregularities that only imply my exultant want.” “I fuck Revenge to wet me up scrupulously and he never questions the excitement of incorrectness and never would follow if I would posit that you, Mr. Revenge, breaks despair, permitting an expatriation formed as repose, carried by “get” and “have.”

MORE

Radiance aggresses any form of “more,” the condition, resulting in future stuff fucking nothing, a timorousness that implements its compliment, abstraction, when I just want more, she thought, a set and necessary consequent, normalcy, pinned in a want hole, dishing out want stance, aggravated and undirected in an unsound, or not, push, confirmationally denying sublimity, neutrality, expedience. ‘More,” the demand as functional dissolution in an assemblage, an appropriation stipulation, an innocuous interstitial spot. For instance, a dead tree gives more if that is all that is said, or as in an aleatory policy to assume more to dangle when faced to fuck, otherwise box it in and accentuate any graven want to require more, a formed deliquescence that rests in the naming of one part. 

A no-name partner can grind a refined preciosity to counter stuff unconscionably; or she thought, he can stick his fingers on my molars and count them as more than generally assumed in that sad rummaged reciprocal edginess, so rattled and concurred from any noticeable recollection of his fuck attempts suggestively miscounting the positioned promptings, a distinction reshaped and transmitted  between self and intimates, systemically analogous  to a grid closure, as if any grid does not preclude a framed marking.