The strength of the snow banks on the bones of the house

Nobody succors nobody no more.
What could be worse

Actaeon breathless and blighted
his dawgs on his hi top heels.

I still winning the meretricious mother lode.
O crude as crude.
You suffering mal de mer
from the metal works

of history in the maki?

All the world’s a stag 

she ejaculated this MC from her
pinked Maserati. Pinked trumps pimped?
Watch my elbows

how they pop
my robber baron
logo polo collars
as I bring down the rebound

Suffer your self-inflicted purchase

nuke puke sepeku in the house.

What means what means.
All this dickering for a pied à terre
argot in the best society
a lil python hobo love
at the crook of the elbow like a kept
tootsie which clouds your heart
like new shoe thrombosis
fat all gangsta cute and tight.

Whose slummin now
in the typhoon’s recession? 

Tanga americana

He pawed at my rusty
chastity and the sound was of Velcro
a 1000 spaghetti straps of unsound tears
dry plastic tears made in Atacama
and the sight was like a sudden sinkhole
a buffet at a limp exotic club in my late erogenous eco tone was something becoming
louche though grand as uncut pile
shabby and chic
like mall wall graffiti
in that American rag sort of way. 

III strikes and you’re in

How ill fitting my hors de combat lbd. You see the spots in the lambent wings
fritting hides pocked throws in the traveling shows of Americana? I. And the
parent paparazzi are so indefatigable now, so committed, so committed! There’s
no turning back the dawn the marplot dawn. I turned on my own turncoat in a
bulletproof test reverbing.

Oh shining buttons of the traitor’s uniform!

No matter which button I pushed I was dazzled. II. The cask strength of the
market was weak but I got high. Who could afford not to afford? III. When I
crashed all my skinflint kin were unmoved removed like the – bearded, elegant
Russians looking barbarically rich – near the end of the Danse Macabre in The
Magic Mountain.

This is me darning the fishnets of your Davos.

Liebe Grüße 

Are there no more fashionable persons with whom to far niente?

I’m in my zone and this thrust stage accentuates my natural ac
etone. It’s fall I dawn a flash of blue kumadori to compliment my war
bonnet logo. On the runway at old Billingsgate it’s me
in a flesh frenzy like fresh road kill in needles inch
mealing its way to the shoulder
of the vip churchyard.

The show’s a massive hit yet so taxing so taxing!

Backstage socialite provocateurs namedrop mercers and sip lip service
It’s lingerie season, leagues of cheeky lingerie of singular variety
doing that football helmet bobble. How I adore being adored

being a double zero in cereza-scented latex! I’m all over it.
“It” is a perfect number for any gala

light yet functional and racy as the sun. 

MUSA o La querida de Yoshitoshi

God you look the polymath in those smart jeggings!

Let’s peel them off slow so I can prick your brain
with choice indecision
start from the monostich of your heels. They’re so tight

the print is so tight I can still see the flowers and stitching
festooning on your thighs!

IwanchU like nobody.

There are ways and there are means
to fathom.
Like Dunkel’s Lovelives
in the Italian of Le variazioni:
Amore ritorna I or if only for the nuance
Bon voyage.

Nobody gets me hard to work
more than the Giclée of you
more than the you in your self.

Like Goya’s Cronus devouring his brood
that picture of abandon
your mouth around the great toe
of my pubic imagination
my tongue sounding the nether
sound of your creative juice 

like Tantalus’ puss
or a father before a fruit bowl
of young flesh
who could resist anything
except temptation. 

Joomla SEF URLs by Artio

Buy Lana Turner #9

Issue 9 is HERE!

Order Now

@ltjournal on Twitter