Literature
Dinner Time
The photograph, the screen, digitized creep, soul gooning, peek or peep, little lamb spread bo-beep, made for love lust-core styling, a slab of frozen time, the woman's face a beauteous offering, a slice of infinite imaginative possibility and possibility in real time, a small glimpse of identity, mind filling in the blanks of totality, plausible, improbable, but paradigmatically everything heart.
I love meat, no soft focus, no AI, airbrushed flesh, or rosalyn haze, unless she’s playing the Delores part, what I want is stark, every curve, mark, scar, every drop of darkness, deeper than bone-deep, photographed in black and white, contrasting nostalgia food art, like Dickinson banging Durkheim, sexual religare, how poetic, a nobody ejaculating on something theophanic, calling it hierophanic, naming it MINE.
My hunger, a profane, feral thing, very unpop, very unpretty. Not for the idealized, the predefined, the conventional OnlyFans ahegao fantasy, cute, but it’s not MEAT. No. I
