Missing Work

Missing Work

Feb 01, 2022

Arbeit mach frei Work will set you free Missing work and the appetite for destruction Arbeit mach frei Learn to code The more you know Power produces itself Like magic Nice work if you can get it Speaking of magic Whore of Babylon is around here somewhere Scarlet lady Producing All that red stuff She's a cutter Slicing through unconscious binds begats a bit of blood She's a peach Sweet cheeks "Juice" the metanym jazzing up the salesmen Cold gray warehouse morning sales huddle You don't want to miss out on work Get with the program Get with the get with Come con Come on Come in Word on the street: The chicks really dig that sensation of ejaculate hitting the cervix Hitting the miss Great work...taking it to the hole Missing work? The "great work" is a rather 19th spilling into the 20th century occult reference.....arcane intrigue Which nonetheless has a slight whiff of "life coach" vocabulary about it. What work do you want to do? He would like to get into traffickingl Like Rimbaud Which sounds like "Rambo" when pronounced out loud in proper french. And that is funny. Hello kitty Betty page Lolita grunge goth e-girl princesses R us. t'were he a trafficker. A passel of Persephones would be his inventory A surfiet of proserpinas -profits pulsing out their poons.....or poonani...as the dancer at Club Rouge (where gentleman go) provides....she is into astrology, tarot, and Twin peaks. He gets familiar enough convo-wise in the occult vein with Scarlet who prefers Carmen as her working girl nom de guerre (Carmen tatooed on her sinewy shoulder meat even) but Club Rouge already has a Carmen. Their dialogue is fluid and his asking about the use of her menstrual blood as paint is an appropriate penetration to a deeper plateau of badinage. She has a tat of her pit bull on her left thigh and most importantly he had no money to splash on a dance.....which started at a $100. Her form was so athletic, she would function as an Athena gaurding the litter of Lolita's....were he the purveyor/ propieter of some brothel. T'were he a trafficker Had they hit it off or was she just incentivized to immediately cultivate affinity? There is often (Nabokov wrote) in Nymphs an archetypal inborn imprint of hospitable prostitution. Vladimir, Vladimir....who was in Weimar Berlin as a young man.....Weimar had its own decadent 20s inspired by financial collapse. Research reveals that therein a cabal of pre-teen/tween girls organized and executed their own business of sexual services for a fee......minus any pimp or adult supervision. Sisters are doing it for themselves. Breaking news: youthful female beauty- fresh n' petite pulchritude keeps trending as an in-demand premium product. imminently monetizable Nymphs - a top-shelf cervix service-centric commodity. Sociology identifies a phenomena: the potent female ensnares a reliable domesticated male for familial security-success, but fucks desirable unreliable alpha males on the side to satisfy her lust and lust for power. The secrets, the double life....a poignant collection point her delta of Venus. Power likes to watch itself produce power. Power power power...- towers fall in tribute to the dream of Anastasia. It started on Instagram he notices a psychedelic painting inspiring him to comment "reverse engineering Barbarella?" The name of the Instagrammer was Paradisoperme... He supped on the sweet honey of her enthusiastic "yes" when after viewing her esthetic leanings, he inquired: "Are you into the Persephone/hades archetype/dynamic"? An exchange of personal photos followed and one of her alone in a classroom clad in blue jeans and blue denim jacket, a glorious cascade of wild dark hair framing her dusky face as she twisted her torso to fit the frame like a rockstar at a photoshoot triggered his deepest radar ...in her visage, mien, and presence he recognized the atavastic pagan aristocrat.....all the 70s girl groups and those prosaic yet impossibly desirable creatures you see in the crowd of old rolling stones concerts rolled into one. She was ineffably familiar. He consecrated Anastasia's electrically erotic imprint with a most thoroughly religious ritual of self pleasure.....twice.....in a row. Consecutive immediacy. A very prompt yes parted invisible doors as she confirmed she had read Lolita. Her dark hair and darker j'in sa qua / mysterious aura was easier to believe when he figured out that she wasn't from Georgia but the republic of Georgia in eastern Europe. He sent her an image of the queen of Pentacles, inquiring if she identified with it. She responded in audio with her indecipherable native tongue (an elegant entanglement of consonants) then followed with translation, also audio, her thick English: "Don't fuck my brain." Her tone possessed a tremor which will never leave his consciousness as it may well be the Highwater mark of whatever power he had in her life. they determined in each other a precise mirroring of eye color (hazel striated with green) and exact same height....5'6"... absent any stratagem he spouted that he loved her and that they were linked for all eternity. This absurd proclamation felt delightful good and true to transmit. Not so much that it was his soul's truth...but this madness provided him a nanosecond of illusion that he had a soul. A palace unseen was forming itself. He shared images from old Russian editions of Lolita, "wow luv it" she responded. He was thrilled when Anastasia confessed her true age, revealing betwixt them precisely forty years. Ocean, edifice, fence, or binding ribbon...it was forty years. He had told her his true age at the start of their virtual intercourse....she had responded to his 54 with a sparkly heart.....she was into it. He had also responded with a heart when she lied about her age. Her deception had been comically small - initially asserting herself as a womanly 15 ...not the nymphic number one digit less. The sparkly heart became her ubiquitous response to his romantic communiques. As her November 25th 15th birthday approached he noticed that the correlate tarot card was typically called temperance but in the Crowley Thoth deck this image of a maiden pouring fluid from one chalice to the other was entitled - "Art.". Prior to her birthday, November 16th turns out to be "Hecate's night" When he informed Anastasia that Hecate being a triple goddess meant that Hecate was poetically that part of Persephone enjoying watching herself be seduced and ravished by Hades. She responded with a sparkly heart, Anastasia responded with a sparkly heart. Eventually she reassured him that she actually understood English.....so many of her Instagram posts are excerpts from the coolest of gloomy western underground post-punk culture. And there is plenty of evidence suggesting she is not starved for attention. He knows it is madness, he writes a song for her birthday in the manner of the psychedelic rock she loves, he indulged phrasing and rhyme appropriate to the genre...

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