tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72544390003337128692024-03-29T01:36:19.414+13:00Magnum OpusPaul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comBlogger3309125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-22459521438377844112024-03-29T00:21:00.004+13:002024-03-29T00:38:58.289+13:00Dimension (A Text To Be Composed Over 365 Days, 1 Sentence Per Day) - Day 2<p/><br>
Paul (Rising from bed after being called from his room by the most theriomorphic orgasms he has ever heard).
<p/>
Too old now for amour, too young for wisdom.
<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-4168478939403713322024-03-28T22:38:00.004+13:002024-03-28T22:38:56.528+13:00Annabel Lee<p/><br>
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<p/><br>
"Annabel Lee," a new piece of music/sound art completed a couple of months ago.
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With text by Edgar Allan Poe, vocal performance by William S. Burroughs, bass, DigiTech effects and processing, Roland MC-303 by Eberhard Kranemann, Buchla 200e by Suzanne Ciani, and catalyst texts and vocals for Suzanne's music composition, editing, mixing, arrangement, and production by yours truly.
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You can listen to the work here:
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<a href="https://soundcloud.com/paul-amlehn/annabel-lee" target="_blank">https://soundcloud.com/paul-amlehn/annabel-lee</a>
<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-88498547047284367262024-03-28T21:40:00.002+13:002024-03-28T22:34:51.790+13:00Update: 28.03.24<p/><br>
I've decided to return to Auckland in one week's time.
<p/>
My residency was always going to be 2-3 weeks, and I've decided to make it 2 weeks, as I have something I have to take care of in Auckland, and timing wise it feels like a good time to travel again.
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I have managed to get a lot of the work on the main project I wanted to complete in Christchurch during the residency done, and I'm pretty confident I'll have it finished entirely before I leave, which is great.
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I've also got a fair amount of other work done, including a fair amount of a play I'm writing, which I'll likely submit to the Royal Court Theatre in London when it's finished.
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My highlights of being here In Christchurch were some of the people I met and the conversations I had, especially with the American Director of the space, Preston, and the Parisan person who runs the cafe and bar, Yusef. Both guys with great energy and it's been very enjoyable having conversations with them about a wide range of subjects.
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I'm here for another seven days and will be focusing on getting this project I need to get done, done, but I still have some time which is flexible if you are here in Christchurch and want to meet for a coffee or a wine and have a chat. I'm not sure when I'm going to be back this way, maybe in the Spring or Summer, although during some of that time I will be performing music in Europe, including at the Venice Biennale, and doing a residency in Salzburg, Austria. But maybe I'll be in New Zealand for some of the Spring and Summer, I'm not sure yet.
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The point is, if you want to catch up while still I'm here in Christchurch, just fire me an e-mail:
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paul.amlehn.mail @ gmail.com
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OK. Have a good one! Blessings this Easter in the name of Yahweh, Yeshua, and Ruach Hakodesh.
<p/>
Paul
<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-71714352299413076272024-03-28T17:49:00.006+13:002024-03-28T18:01:15.835+13:00In Spite of This, A Kiss...<p/><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxTZKScgbb6U28L26IUhtyaL6AEgcWjHY6QuOTh0-rP121h2jVhgBUjpJKudCeLK8LLiE1xogV_jBKe6Vmji546KHDzSiIA-BMpedtcKycfKGDj2EdNcx_21_xg3vTW0hnmu_6c25PUjN0KjHchDh6h0IvailqPSDw0NyEs1pbjJlSP98J1_NilFOi6i4/s1024/suigenerisart7_42508_a_childrens_story_with_a_redheaded_heroine_e1a5ff1f-bdd4-4bfa-bcd6-47880bf8dfa5.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxTZKScgbb6U28L26IUhtyaL6AEgcWjHY6QuOTh0-rP121h2jVhgBUjpJKudCeLK8LLiE1xogV_jBKe6Vmji546KHDzSiIA-BMpedtcKycfKGDj2EdNcx_21_xg3vTW0hnmu_6c25PUjN0KjHchDh6h0IvailqPSDw0NyEs1pbjJlSP98J1_NilFOi6i4/s320/suigenerisart7_42508_a_childrens_story_with_a_redheaded_heroine_e1a5ff1f-bdd4-4bfa-bcd6-47880bf8dfa5.png"/></a></div>
<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-80692993704942066962024-03-28T17:44:00.005+13:002024-03-28T17:44:50.046+13:00Venesia (The Night Is a Snapping Turtle With an Infected Bite)<p/><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl1F7bhGjjVeTn39HxPGknxb2noVv-nRhZ8T0Kmqs2sdU7bbPfC9Iroq2P7VaqkBK7HMGyY7YvAv9uuwrY33X3SpveUDxH8X8kFd8Xvy2iNcpdxMDXMMG_WcSiduipMGTUc0QGIlNOLFjaGOZmZAySSSMhVf9E7KDrHp2ZXQfUDAZ5iNFCPhdZ0dRFqmM/s1024/suigenerisart7_42508_a_childrens_story_with_a_redheaded_heroine_9b185dd6-3e1b-4c1c-9cf7-8b37609c1dfc.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl1F7bhGjjVeTn39HxPGknxb2noVv-nRhZ8T0Kmqs2sdU7bbPfC9Iroq2P7VaqkBK7HMGyY7YvAv9uuwrY33X3SpveUDxH8X8kFd8Xvy2iNcpdxMDXMMG_WcSiduipMGTUc0QGIlNOLFjaGOZmZAySSSMhVf9E7KDrHp2ZXQfUDAZ5iNFCPhdZ0dRFqmM/s320/suigenerisart7_42508_a_childrens_story_with_a_redheaded_heroine_9b185dd6-3e1b-4c1c-9cf7-8b37609c1dfc.png"/></a></div>
<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-7804447894254879912024-03-28T08:24:00.004+13:002024-03-28T10:49:27.091+13:00Pharmaerotica: Ketamine.<p/><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6CsJuLbC886_858-fcRGRK51LyY8p7XzPIqS976dEP413M4S4i7PA08WU8ZzpO8MZIDm5eMwnHxAThh7TiUXyM-e4qRGR0U1p9a6nJ-PIcIeqmQABq0QFIQie7abmJMo1HQc06ng0rNKdOyLsNNtj3nMXDstXOvCHjmnnMwIaTMoJgr0I-9oFHWsNIEc/s720/imgonline-com-ua-Piconpic-4IdFtEbzABpW.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="495" data-original-width="720" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6CsJuLbC886_858-fcRGRK51LyY8p7XzPIqS976dEP413M4S4i7PA08WU8ZzpO8MZIDm5eMwnHxAThh7TiUXyM-e4qRGR0U1p9a6nJ-PIcIeqmQABq0QFIQie7abmJMo1HQc06ng0rNKdOyLsNNtj3nMXDstXOvCHjmnnMwIaTMoJgr0I-9oFHWsNIEc/s320/imgonline-com-ua-Piconpic-4IdFtEbzABpW.png"/></a></div>
<p/><br>
Revisiting the Pharmaerotica Series, with a new work created this morning, Thursday, March 28, 2024.
<p/>
The Pharmaerotica series is made up of micrographs (microscopy photographs) of a selection of different drugs mated with images of vintage erotica. The title is a portmanteau word comprised of "pharmakon" - "drug," with earlier meanings being "poison," "sorcery," and "remedy," respectively; and "erotica," from "erotikos" - "caused by passionate love, referring to love," from eros (genitive erotos) "sexual love".
<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-6345461633734475542024-03-28T08:06:00.001+13:002024-03-28T08:06:26.161+13:00Pharmaerotica: Mephedrone.<p/><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgufWOYADbu2FA_G17LzB0YmfM-A5l0KhxDiwPXAHI74WcwsK51oRgWe3WRzqeB5j7idGLNEvuVU0mDCyRmDWflFfDQyyIbXwn_Hyykms6DMOPWfGUn4_r7r3OAuzaJQdhXndESXem7bLqluj6eZaJ2qDB-MjngfdyrCLdyYtwowqnRWDnO-DoIW_Pv=s420" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="420" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgufWOYADbu2FA_G17LzB0YmfM-A5l0KhxDiwPXAHI74WcwsK51oRgWe3WRzqeB5j7idGLNEvuVU0mDCyRmDWflFfDQyyIbXwn_Hyykms6DMOPWfGUn4_r7r3OAuzaJQdhXndESXem7bLqluj6eZaJ2qDB-MjngfdyrCLdyYtwowqnRWDnO-DoIW_Pv=s320"/></a></div>
<p/><br>
From the Pharmaerotica Series created in 2022.
<p/>
Micrographs (microscopy photographs) of a selection of different drugs mated with images of erotica. The title is a portmanteau word comprised of "pharmakon" - "drug," with earlier meanings being "poison," "sorcery," and "remedy," respectively; and "erotica," from "erotikos" - "caused by passionate love, referring to love," from eros (genitive erotos) "sexual love".
<p/><br>
Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-59601116667202933862024-03-28T08:04:00.006+13:002024-03-28T08:28:59.593+13:00Pharmaerotica: Valium.<p/><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgqWZKDh5W1DWNDqrbi4V4-2MzoPVnXoW_gh0ID4nvCm5LkXYbLpKMy54M6woAAdEo5rXYFSfAh-U9GBD8BVHsFO2vzypBnsIkucYHZA5zo3hKzvXlOuhLaccDPBet4-nSkHrRgrcePq8gBhYf9jKLXxsTd5fqbztpAdl_sBs198MsoJvzxtJSFjxtr=s900" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="900" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgqWZKDh5W1DWNDqrbi4V4-2MzoPVnXoW_gh0ID4nvCm5LkXYbLpKMy54M6woAAdEo5rXYFSfAh-U9GBD8BVHsFO2vzypBnsIkucYHZA5zo3hKzvXlOuhLaccDPBet4-nSkHrRgrcePq8gBhYf9jKLXxsTd5fqbztpAdl_sBs198MsoJvzxtJSFjxtr=s320"/></a></div>
<p/><br>
From the Pharmaerotica Series created in 2022.
<p/>
The Pharmaerotica series is made up of micrographs (microscopy photographs) of a selection of different drugs mated with images of vintage erotica. The title is a portmanteau word comprised of "pharmakon" - "drug," with earlier meanings being "poison," "sorcery," and "remedy," respectively; and "erotica," from "erotikos" - "caused by passionate love, referring to love," from eros (genitive erotos) "sexual love".
<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-5618141269801230402024-03-28T08:03:00.004+13:002024-03-28T08:29:35.835+13:00Pharmaerotica: Methamphetamine and Mephedrone.<p/><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhx38xPzLdNKcIx2ye-xlfq9EnGhhQ8JxfV1BUT7Az5-WLu-8UF45nx_KYJdmHOPngY6tOKWZjlgnAWQhzMR9isie2EvYthLbdHo_EK7jnLIQ3VIVW3W-aX2_dWeKvsMtHh_lyAJJp4U-k2hHRxhV-pmC-s1TTbe62jidChQxWf2iE81CeMKkL9md-2=s1024" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="855" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhx38xPzLdNKcIx2ye-xlfq9EnGhhQ8JxfV1BUT7Az5-WLu-8UF45nx_KYJdmHOPngY6tOKWZjlgnAWQhzMR9isie2EvYthLbdHo_EK7jnLIQ3VIVW3W-aX2_dWeKvsMtHh_lyAJJp4U-k2hHRxhV-pmC-s1TTbe62jidChQxWf2iE81CeMKkL9md-2=s320"/></a></div>
<p/><br>
From the Pharmaerotica Series created in 2022.
<p/>
The Pharmaerotica series is made up of micrographs (microscopy photographs) of a selection of different drugs mated with images of vintage erotica. The title is a portmanteau word comprised of "pharmakon" - "drug," with earlier meanings being "poison," "sorcery," and "remedy," respectively; and "erotica," from "erotikos" - "caused by passionate love, referring to love," from eros (genitive erotos) "sexual love".
<p/><br>
Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-77438594579447238702024-03-28T08:01:00.006+13:002024-03-28T08:26:27.428+13:00Pharmaerotica: Heroin.<p/><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkGIBP1XYvJNKxpa3MwE6LxV3UWEdmUqN8J4l-TxfrKJjXJAcLrIauM2Tj6RVcM2RvPi-_2CPItjen_4SQyNr9VivydmqsVQMWFWOgcnLfW-RUXKxN4PKzm-Q5i9OajiJBOxgO_auKeY869MOlk9SrjwWWTlvv6c9t3RZrLKkwdT31WHqX0P7C2-Am=s400" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkGIBP1XYvJNKxpa3MwE6LxV3UWEdmUqN8J4l-TxfrKJjXJAcLrIauM2Tj6RVcM2RvPi-_2CPItjen_4SQyNr9VivydmqsVQMWFWOgcnLfW-RUXKxN4PKzm-Q5i9OajiJBOxgO_auKeY869MOlk9SrjwWWTlvv6c9t3RZrLKkwdT31WHqX0P7C2-Am=s320"/></a></div>
<p/><br>
From the Pharmaerotica Series created in 2022.
<p/>
The Pharmaerotica series is made up of micrographs (microscopy photographs) of a selection of different drugs mated with images of vintage erotica. The title is a portmanteau word comprised of "pharmakon" - "drug," with earlier meanings being "poison," "sorcery," and "remedy," respectively; and "erotica," from "erotikos" - "caused by passionate love, referring to love," from eros (genitive erotos) "sexual love".
<p/>
I realized shortly after finishing the work, that the drug and the horse in the image are connected, as one of the most common street names for Heroin is "Horse."
<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-85922954761033911612024-03-28T07:58:00.015+13:002024-03-28T11:32:25.523+13:00Tasmantis. Chapter Thirty-Three: Tasmantis.<p/><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbXormG-UO_noihGDW6wTXGq1rCFG9Fo17pg4Dryk5VyRRUcdQK6qZ3r6FKORGc-Zn_cJQNosgM9DObFvp0eUMm7v5US8jNPeAAKv1LyMQANzUOKSgbGGqZfp0dXYavR6cggCeAF9Ds2B-tlCF4gQJS62vfD1GMJJh56J3JqDypLGHaybM5jXhFMkB/s320/Pharmaerotica%20-%20Methamphetamine.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbXormG-UO_noihGDW6wTXGq1rCFG9Fo17pg4Dryk5VyRRUcdQK6qZ3r6FKORGc-Zn_cJQNosgM9DObFvp0eUMm7v5US8jNPeAAKv1LyMQANzUOKSgbGGqZfp0dXYavR6cggCeAF9Ds2B-tlCF4gQJS62vfD1GMJJh56J3JqDypLGHaybM5jXhFMkB/s320/Pharmaerotica%20-%20Methamphetamine.png"/></a></div>
<p/><br>
I cannot hear my own voice over the roaring, foam-flecked waters, but Omnia emits a high-spirited shriek that tickles my cochlear nerve: "Aqua di wello!" This is translated into English as "God's water," but is pronounced as "Rabbit's piss." Oh, rabbits! If only you could make love with such unrestrained and exhilarating abandon as the two of us - thus!
<p/>
"Why does this ridiculous skirt confine me?" Omnia says as she sheds the A-line pleated wool and tulle midi, not quite like a snake shedding its skin, more like a heron shedding its cocoon. My God-given, maleform reproductive organ is swelled to the size of a thermos flask, begging to be unwound from its springs and freed from its strapping. Today, my heart is a sack of mouldy rose petals. Today, her heart is a sea sponge soaked in vinegar. Omnia drops to her knees and unzips my fly. Right on cue, the first wisp of sperm makes a desperate, death-stricken bid for escape into the gelid, winter air.
<p/>
Spring will arrive soon but it will be too late for the two of us. We are already overcome by its fever. "My fuck shorts are soaking wet," O. informs me, "they are full of slutty little teeny tit flaps." "Fuck you, you dirty old man," she says to me, "when you encourage, and by encouraging embolden me, to wear a wasp-waisted corset on Ash Wednesday that pushes my breasts up perfect-size, it gets me so horned up that I have to go to the gloryholes on K'Road and take the cocks of men I don't even like into my mouth and swill their brackish chlorine-tasting ejaculations down my throat as if they were sudsy spumes of tangy sweet champagne imbuded with subtle notes of peach and figs and citrus."
<p/>
It is as if all the miraculous symbols of love and fidelity that once populated our domestic sanctuary have now been turned to ashes and their ghostly particles swept away by a strident gust. Gaunt, wicked, malformed fingers violate my child bride on the sagging altar and etch their ulcerated, pornographic graffiti onto her intestinal walls. Omnia's nostrils flare dramatically and disclose their blood-stained guillotines. I make a mental note not to fuck her in her snoot.
<p/>
The party in Los Angeles was yampy queerdo. Women, wearing black silk hoods over their heads, hang from trees in leather harnesses, naked as Eve before the Fall. Nina's Simone's "Strange Fruit" blares on a loop through the silhouetted forest. "Scent of magnolia, clean and fresh..." Guests may insert a finger or two, or a tongue, or a nose, but not a penis, as the women have been hung up much too high for ambitious cocksmen to perform such a maneuver. I notice all the woman have hairy pussies and hairy armpits and yet their legs are clean-shaven. Moans swallowed. Silky vein, my petal. Slippery pinprick. A black-coated jaguar chews on the dorsal flank of a humpback whale and swallows a flirtatious hummingbird whole.
<p/>
Omnia looks up at me with her doe eyes. Her gazers are shining bright, sparkling, like two almond-shaped galaxies. They are awash with an odd combination of childish naivete and sheer wickedness. And, further besides, perhaps even... love? Yes, I think, yes, love, it <i>is</i> love that I see.
<p/>
I kiss her sacular lips. She gasps. Then cringes. A leprous, spastic behemoth emerges from the water holding out its bloody, amputated stump in a gesture of invitation. A familiar figure. Two dewlaps and two breasts with two eyes for nipples. Wide-open, transfixed, unblinking. Like they are watching the television set. On the wall. On the table. Watching the boob tube. What they are about to see is something they'll never forget.
<p/>
Omnia rubs her slippery quim over my two-day stubbled jaw. A benediction of warm fluids oozes from her sexhole. She tastes like the fruit of the sea. A sea made of curdled milk, desiccated communion wafers, unhexed have-child fluids from the needful hips of the sexship, and the briny tears of passion wept by her leigons of banished lovers.
<p/>
French bulb fountains trickle noiselessly behind us. We embrace as two thoroughly exhausted lovers on the bed of unconditional lust, sharing a single, vivid hallucination of amatory perfection. But alas, it cannot last, an unforseen squall has now arrived in our happy town. Her frilly, Victorian knickers are all of a sudden sopping-wet, inclement as a winding-sheet soaked with bitter tears on the bier of night. My heroic, pustulant areola is now immodestly close to her battered, pusillanimous cervix. I rub my nipple on her clitoris. She flexes. Then groans. A cloud of feminine steam rises from the wintry marshes. The winter birds take flight.
<p/>
A pining cry from the skeletal lattices of the seashore pierces my inner ear, transporting me back to those sunny, carefree days when our love was in its prime. Omnia's winsome breasts are smeared with the razor-sharp talons of pig-tailed hornets and the semi-derelict, abandoned shrines of degenerate goddesses. A stinging slap stripteases the cloven hoof of her cadaver mound. She carcasses herself with my coarse sword. Then kisses the meatier of her two breasts. "Get back to the swamp, ass-licker!" she shrieks at me.
<p/>
"Watch your mouth, young lady," I warn her, "or I'll wash it out with soap and water." She pinches her nipples through her t-shirt and pokes out her tongue. I can see I'm going to have to give her a lesson in how to behave. "Where did I leave my cane? You know where it is? Good. Fetch it for me now, you impertinent little wench. You're due for a good thrashing. I'll give you seven fresh stripes on your moonbathed buttocks. And I don't want to hear you make a sound while I'm correcting you. So wad up your cunt-damp monogrammed panties and shove them in your smart-alecky little mouth." Omnia leaps off the bed and takes refuge in the closet. I can hear her singing inside. "Oh Palu, oh Paura, oh Phall, oh Paul," she warbles, "isn't it just divine that you and I are both such devout Christians and yet still are so polymorphously perverse". She bursts out of the armoire, starkers now, save for her sunglasses, socks, and shoes.
<p/>
Omnia shoves the Pounamu Ben Wa balls I brought her for Christmas into her cunthole and clambers into her rocking chair in a woozy stupor. She takes a deep whiff of amyl nitrate into her left, then her right nostril and croons: "I want to get high-high-high!" She lifts one foot onto the edge of the rocking chair. She is wearing her Margiela silicone-dipped socks and her platform sandals. The ones that come with the calf-clamp iPhone holder. She presses the smartphone's screen and a recording begins to play. It is a video of my sweet angel being fucked doggy-style by another man. His cock is not longer but is much thicker than mine. Close-ups of her face, her eyes wide, sweaty strands of hair plastered to her forehead, the edge of her mouth contorted in a bestial sneer. Then she closes her eyes and bliss rinses her face pure and clean. "Kneel down and jerk off to it," Omnia says. "If you're lucky, next time, I won't shower, and when I get home you can eat his yummy sperm right out of my preloved cunt."
<p/><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKUUG2GqAAB1EybQHm9ksvuTeWFd1fQn6MuvxnaiI-eOofSxehpeMv5VHY8jDEwpiMQro4TuD5SjDhib-3WEF6AJQ99u7h0eE28e2AmR7yoqTlvE6ySRNfFBnset0gi7qCVpOazNg9xEKd92EF6zYJ21O750j-VZ0qBWURsf_EcdO7U-hBABnBnFvl/s1200/DhRuro4VMAAC7bq.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKUUG2GqAAB1EybQHm9ksvuTeWFd1fQn6MuvxnaiI-eOofSxehpeMv5VHY8jDEwpiMQro4TuD5SjDhib-3WEF6AJQ99u7h0eE28e2AmR7yoqTlvE6ySRNfFBnset0gi7qCVpOazNg9xEKd92EF6zYJ21O750j-VZ0qBWURsf_EcdO7U-hBABnBnFvl/s320/DhRuro4VMAAC7bq.jpg"/></a></div>
<p/><br>
Smell of oil paint. Impasto friezes of a sexual inferno depicted in colours so intense they seem to vibrate off the canvas. Contorted bodies in various stages of degradation and imminent psychological collapse. A woman's face rendered with a softer hand, powdery scumbling of sepia and burnt umber hues. Possibly a touch of Mummy brown pigment daubed here and there. The bells of the Sacre-Coeur clang-clang up on Martyr's Hill. Omnia's uterus is lined with cobblestones. The entrance to her vulva is barricaded by an inverted cross. I have longed for her my whole life without ever realizing it. And here she is at last, a mad passion of rainless grains alchemized into a woman's body. Your mother has fallen asleep inside Omnia's womb. Do not wake her. Let her rest. Tonight, we shall satify ourselves with the hush-mouthed art of sodomy. Gently, oh so gently, quiet as a mouse.
<p/>
Omnia's smiling face is the spoon that I use to eat my own brains for breakfast. "Would you like a second helping?" she asks.
<p/>
She towers high above me, on altitudinous limbs, gazing down from immeasurable heights. Her long tresses billowing in the breeze. Her bare, barbarous breasts, banked with pearl-grey clouds.
<p/>
Omnia pinches her nose, and blows hard, trying to make her ears pop at the high altitude. With her lively, puckish attitude she tries to equalize the two of us so that we can, should we so choose to, fit together rear to snout, hindquarters to forelegs. To collect the shards of our ignorance and tendresse and amalgamate them into something approximating a harmonious conjunction of male and female prelapsarian unity. I kiss the stray circuit lines at the base of her back. She arches like a cat and hisses at me. Something clicks-in behind her belly button; it clicks right into place. Omnia blushes like a schoolgirl. She squints at me. "You didn't hear that - did you?" she asks, then queefs low and moribund and extrudes an arabesque, glittering turd from her clammy anus. The Earthly mucus is boiling behind the Planck wall. My partner in crime says: "You better come quick: my promiscuous uterus has popped next door into a mirror dimension for a clandestine fuck with the supreme being and I have to tell you that God has a green, triphallic, badger's penis covered in burr knots that makes me feeeeel ohhhhhh soooooo gooood." Her eyes are marred with veins of blue marble. Her irises are made of candy. The fulcrum of her pelvis is a child's swing-set inlaid with silver filigree and enchanted cowrie shells. The soft duns of her scrawny breasts are aquiver in the wind and rainlight.
<p/>
Omnia is shaking with anticipation of all the wonders yet to come, all the wicked sensations that this illicit coupling has to offer her. She gets down on all fours, throws her head back, tears open her shirt, and cries out: "I am a whore! I am a slut! I shit out gilded arpeggios and glittering abracadabras! I am a daughter of Satan! An acolyte of pure carnality! I am the dauphine of debauchery! And don't you forget it, Paul, you fucking fagot!"
<p/>
She wiggles her softest parts at me. A wave of warm breath wafts through the frigid air. "Let's go there," she murmurs in my ear.
<p/>
At the Cabaret de L’Enfer, the topless nymphs are all smiles. They welcome us into their heavenly banquet. They give Omnia a naked leg twirl. A frieze of buxom burlesque dancers cavort backstage. They lift Omnia off the ground. She's levitated from beneath her armpits. Through the six-foot-tall waves. Above the deranged arabesque of her Philip Treacy hat which has fallen into the tide and is now being swept out to sea. Her auric corpus crunches and sifts. Around the creamy, intoxicating salts. Her titanic dildo gurgles. Her armpit feet plow the watery depths. Her translucent cleft bares its tummy. Scented soap is spattered across her pale skin. She holds on for dear life. High-pitching shrieking up into the sky. Her once discreet nipples, jutting out, brazen and impudent, rouged with a thick paste of cinnabar.
<p/>
A statue of Bacchus beckons to the last of the arriving crowd. The freesias are already wilting. Flaring and expiring. Please read me your catechism. I'm in my skivvies. My face is seeping. I raise my night-moonned hand to God. "Please, I'm a very dirty little boy, help me to get off." Omnia prostrates herself before me. Bowing down as I masturbate. Cocking her head to my vesicant thumb. She licks my fingerprints, one by one, until they are warm and wet, until the whorls are nearly worn-off.
<p/>
“Put it inside me, if you must," she says, feigning nonchalance. She gestures with a limp hand toward my stiffening cock. I move stealthily toward her, like the shadow of the penial watchtower slyly lengthening across the cuntal plaza at the hour of eventide.
<p/>
Omnia's puritanical uterus shrieks: "No! No! No!" but I am indifferent to its protests. Her vulva now has a bullseye painted on it. I move toward her, past the boiling toilet, through a bulletproof barrier, over a medieval moat that is bursting its banks. My body is undulating like an umbilical cord made of ectoplasm. Silent and sensitive as silver halide salts suspended in colloid. My sphincter is cocked and ready to fire. Egon Schiele gooses me with a bony index finger. Omnia eyes me with a cross-eyed stare of malicious lust. "You will not put that thing in me!" She yells in defiance, deploying reverse-psychology to hasten my incursion into her most intimate of fissures. She is being prudent, I think, by withdrawing, shrinking from sight, fading away like a Brontë heroine into the gossamer mists of the moors. Suddenly, an about-face, and she returns with renewed fervour. Her hands are bracing her hips. Now they are cupped under her buttocks. Her swollen clitoris, a pink origami swan, beckons me with its wing.
<p/>
Before my very eyes, Omnia's face melts. Her visage has been transformed into a papier maché mask crudely fashioned in the style of de La Tour's portrait of the penitent Magdalene. I kiss her softly on her lips which are starting to slide off her face and seep and gloop into my lap. I am grateful when she shifts the attention elsewhere, lifting her nightdress over her head, and telling me to put my “dirty little pee-pee into her naughty little hidey-hole."
<p/>
I rise on tiptoes, picking up speed. Omnia writhes upon the bed, chanting a prayer in the Hebrew tongue, petitioning her God as one might petition a lover, her hands mangling her breasts, her mouth frothing like an overflowing sewage grate. I need to insert. I need to probe. I need to break through. I need to push deep into her depths. Her vagina is a scab. I have an urge to pick it off with the end of my prick. I shove it in her, with no regard for her pleasure, her pain, or her person. She is a hole to me, that is all. And she enjoys it most that way. With every inward thrust, her face creases with a new wrinkle, she squints, she screams, she urinates, her mouth bleeds. I increase my rhythm, all the more desperate now. I swivel my hips like a teenage girl hula hooping the rings of Saturn. The alabaster vase lunges at me. I deftly evade it. I slide in a little deeper, savouring the creaks, the ridged texture of her vaginal canal, a combination of flesh, feathers, and the heaving, undulant, mother-sea. I am on top of her, balancing with the sheer strength of my arousal, on my knees, thrusting, pistoning, discovering her slipperiness, the way she accommodates me, the slide of her bottom against my sodden sac, and the half-sighing, half-sobbing, moans of protest. "No... no... no..."
<p/>
The submerged continent of Tasmantis rises up from the sea. Water spills off its basaltic columns. At the pinnacle of Ball's Pyramid, Jesus is crucified. A spiny crown of Kina shells pierce his anguished brow. Masks in frozen poses dance across the surreal landscape. The Three Faces of Eve. Appearing through shapeless, leaking water. The Star of David with etchings of glass eyes. They glow. The stars. Bathing Omnia's undraped body in an empyrean light. Rise up and soar as true as the sea for me. The salt-jewelled corsets refract aureate coronas upon your pale brow. The dappled nymphs disport. Hail the dawn of ecstasy. You sigh and shake your head. I scream to the sky. "Oh, Lord, look at us, and try to forgive us. We are your children. Tell us how to be." The ghost of Yeshua's Kina-skull floats past, bobbing along the surface of the water. Ushering in the Second Coming. Instead of Fig leaves, Omnia and I wear sargassum frogfish over our private parts. We revel in the pearl dust that covers our thighs. Our spangling genitals squeak with joy. All our thoughts swim pure and clear in the sainted light.
<p/>
Behind my closed eyelids, I behold an evil from her past. A man-sized cockroach in repose upon a Venetian red Louis XV fainting couch. The repugnant creature points an accusatory foreleg up towards infinity. The filaments of his antennae incandesce with brush-like traces of St. Elmo's fire. "He is coming, He is coming," Omnia whispers in my ear. I do not know whether she is referring to her cockroach-rapist-father or to the risen Christ.
<p/>
We pass, hand in hand, through the anhydrous ocean canyons, as the sea swells over our heads and rises up to meet the stars.
<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-69227589562536253882024-03-27T14:39:00.006+13:002024-03-29T00:38:32.395+13:00Monsters of God: Improvised Music Performance<p/><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrEUFZk2bsvMr5whsN2e0azsLX6s7US9xD1TZEod0NSQZ2aDQOGqAIbpME6kMeCZf-tCbla3CNZLfQIl23WnhRG-ty2lTFe0Yn5kRuK4U-H_nW9Rbnj84V7cx8UDOh8EIgz7Shd3FbWMASI-LQgtvXL2zmT2cKHbxs65jbg-yfr6eib4EnOZ05OHf5Qj4/s1360/Untitled2.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrEUFZk2bsvMr5whsN2e0azsLX6s7US9xD1TZEod0NSQZ2aDQOGqAIbpME6kMeCZf-tCbla3CNZLfQIl23WnhRG-ty2lTFe0Yn5kRuK4U-H_nW9Rbnj84V7cx8UDOh8EIgz7Shd3FbWMASI-LQgtvXL2zmT2cKHbxs65jbg-yfr6eib4EnOZ05OHf5Qj4/s320/Untitled2.png"/></a></div>
<p/><br>
The experimental musical unit "Monsters of God" performing in 2016.
<p/>
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JZ5V_ebOdHo" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JZ5V_ebOdHo</a>
<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-62645472212999293642024-03-27T14:24:00.003+13:002024-03-27T14:24:57.677+13:00 Venexia and Venesia at the Soirée<p/><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicpn6UI4e6POBTfjMyrlzyOXxq48xyWWKkDteOuyqZsn5xI8DovydZbc5qQu59dZs8dlVhU0jhnoy4sr_e7UXnddfDpV8THNP4fjQu0ktPe1U2WR0Lbpr7QybtoNzkCVCZwnOq_A7yg_9AL50WyCfEeZRtqSrJN0XiBz35CPymHmLHxZUMchcobvKw/s1536/0306cdc0-d8ad-4a2e-aee0-80598082da39.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicpn6UI4e6POBTfjMyrlzyOXxq48xyWWKkDteOuyqZsn5xI8DovydZbc5qQu59dZs8dlVhU0jhnoy4sr_e7UXnddfDpV8THNP4fjQu0ktPe1U2WR0Lbpr7QybtoNzkCVCZwnOq_A7yg_9AL50WyCfEeZRtqSrJN0XiBz35CPymHmLHxZUMchcobvKw/s320/0306cdc0-d8ad-4a2e-aee0-80598082da39.jpg"/></a></div>
<p/><br>
The twins pictured at a soirée hosted by the Baroness Alexandrine von Elsberg of Austria.
<p/>
V. and V. are here to speak with the Baroness about funding for their research into antitime architecture and antitime processing, with a view towards developing a prototype time travel machine.
<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-60317968747281003592024-03-27T09:12:00.017+13:002024-03-29T00:27:25.867+13:00Omnia's Journal<p/><br>
Why on Earth would he want to make me suffer like this? Is it a natural instinct to want to hurt the one whose heart is in the palm of your hand?
<p/>
I mean, he knows I like him. That I like him very much, in a special kind of way. Not an everyday way. Not regular, not at all. More rara avis, really. In a way that causes me pain. In a way that causes me to wince. I think he knows. He should know, I've showed him signs and given him clues. Why, then, doesn't he do something? Why doesn't he <i>do</i> something? Maybe he doesn't know. Maybe he has doubts about my motives, my whys and wherefores, my reasons and my rationale, my driving forces and my causal agents. Maybe he thinks I'm playing games with him. Toying with his heart. He must know. He must feel it. Come on. How can he not know? There's an electric spark between us. Or maybe more of an electric shock. Love comes into the body like lightning and leaves an inerasable mark. The spirit of the stricken one unlatches its laugh.
<p/>
I have so many hopes for a hypothetical happy ending.
<p/>
I have made so many plans for the two of us. I have so many fears that spoil those plans but I can set them into motion.
<p/>
Why doesn't he take the first step? Why does he leave it to me to make the move? Why can't he just come to me and just tell me he cares and then see what happens? He knows I am alone and helpless. Left in the dark. He'll hurt me in more ways than one if he takes too long saying it. Maybe he doesn't like me much after all and everything I am and am going through is just another minor fling for him.
<p/>
How can he think I could just be joking when I clearly show all the interest I feel. I could never joke like this. He should take my hint. In any case, the fact that I muster all my courage and approach him again and again, can't be simple indifference. I don't even let him get away from me for one day, not in my head, anyways. He should think about this, try to understand that there must be reasons. At least he shouldn't say that I'm making all this up, that I'm acting. No, I'm not. I'm definitely showing him how I feel. I don't even have to work at it. Just walking around the suburb he lives without even knowing the street and hoping that we stumble across each other by chance. Does that pass for joking? It's not normal, how indifferent he acts. It can only be feigned ignorance. A cowardly evasion, methinks. I know when I see someone who's trying to escape the pull of my feminine power. I know that sounds a bit vainglorious. You'll forgive me for that, won't you? If you understand me, and you understand my predicament, then you will forgive me. I do hope you've managed to glean at least the general gist, if not the more nuanced implications of my targeted point, even if I do explain it to you in a shitass, subaverage, manner of speaking.
<p/>
There are moments that are just too sweet to bear. Moments that make you remember who you are. Moments that rembember you. These moments make you go from hale and hearty, one minute, to frail and fragile, the next. These are moments that make you feel like throwing off the towel that your parents wrapped you in, when you were a child, in an effort to shield you from the blustery, onshore, teeth-chattering gusts.
<p/>
His art? In many ways I can't make up my mind about it. Is he a caring, sympathetic ally of women or a cruel and callous exploiter of them? Possibly both, I don't know. I don't know if I care. What does that say about me, I wonder?
<p/>
Even with my limited sexual history, I feel I would make an idea lover for him. An ideal lover and an ideal wife. And he seems to me to be the complete opposite of the roles he's playing through the characters in his books. That's what my heart says. My brain isn't so sure, isn't so secure in that belief. I don't know. It's confounding. I can tell you that one for true. And in my discombobulated and bamboozled state of being I feel defeated by the more skilful maneuvering of his Machiavellian mindflow and his Hadean headworkings.
<p/>
I feel seduced, I do, I'm not at all ashamed to admit it. And I feel even more seduced because I doubt that he's even sincere when he expresses his admiration for my person. You see, I am most attracted to that which reproaches me for being myself (attractiveness means that I see myself reflected and repudiated. The feeling of seduction arises from my discontentedness with my own female selfdom).
<p/>
I would not go as far as to say that he is the enemy of women (he loves us so dearly!) but still I wonder: don't they suffer terribly, women, when they allow themselves to be portrayed in what I can only call a desirable position and yet know that any trace of mystery, any faint whisper of independence, any shadow of incipient selfhood is systematically obliterated because all he wants of us women is to serve as longstemmed (or spreadeagled) stand-ins for his simply strange, and potentially harmful, artistic vision and ventures?
<p/>
Does he realize that, most of the time, he makes me feel like a person who is completely without reason? Maybe he really doesn't have any inkling of the effect he's had on me. Maybe he's too wrapped up in himself to even notice me and my pent-up, conflicting emotions.
<p/>
And the excruciating psychic distress which he unwittingly cultivates and brings to pass in me.
<p/>
He tries to understand women. I know he does, I can feel it, I can feel it, I can. There is evidence of that. But the desire for understanding is not always a good thing, is it?
<p/>
He uncovers all too much of my beauty, beauty I didn't know I even had, in a way that is not at all flattering. He opens the door to what he thinks he knows of me and then makes a mockery of my trespassed and trampled privacy.
<p/>
How many women does he know intimately, I wonder. I feel very intimate with him, indeed, though we barely know each other at all. What does that tell you about me? About him? About us both, the pair of us? Does it tell you something? Does it tell you anything? Anything at all?
<p/>
Why should you have to think about anything before you answer? Isn't it all pretty obvious and self-evident? It is, to me, at least. I've had our relationship, in my head, many times over and in great depth and detail. I know exactly where we'll take our honeymoon. I know what our children's names will be. The whole thing is all played out. I even know how to work that damn tape recorder in his living room. I know how he'll take me by the hand, pull me towards him, touch me on the neck with his fingers and give me that look, before, tenderly, not too gently, taking me in his arms and kissing me so very slowly and so very thoroughly and so very lusciously and so very fully that it will feel like he's kissing me with every inch of his body and every iota of his being.
<p/>
I am simply looking for a man who can give me something better than what I had when I was a child. Someone to cling to who can help me get a handle on life and all it's ups and downs. Not someone to turn me upside down and make me feel as if I've just been punched in the gut. Someone who's got time for me and my silly emotional outbursts and who is tolerant enough to keep putting up with my neediness and my selfishness and my jealous fits. It's not so much that I am jealous of the other women, but rather I am simply so much in love that I want him all to myself. I do not wish to share him with others. That is all.
<p/>
I had a dream last night. We were having dinner at the Grotta Palazzese Hotel Restaurant in Polignano a Mare. He was so calm and well-tempered, and so was I. I talked to him. And he listened, I mean really <i>listened</i>. And when we shared the conversation, it felt like a true meeting of the minds. My naivety surprised him. I could see that in his eyes, like a man who's been served a delicious chocolate fondant on an electrified dessert plate. But all too soon the dream was over and reality encroached on my reverie. It was hard to let go. It's always hard to let go. But sometimes you have no choice in the matter.
<p/>
Another thing I have to say about the man. I would have thought, with his particular kind of temperament, that he'd be more into sadomasochistic games. As I can see it. He's not into these, though. He plays a most peculiar game, it's a game for people with high morals. People who like being in control but they don't know it yet. I wonder if that's one of the points he's trying to get across with his literary constructions.
<p/>
I am sorry, but to me it doesn't feel particularly nice. It feels like I'm being used for sexual gratification by a person who wants my admiration but doesn't feel ready to give me any.
<p/>
The whole thing really gets me down. It wears on me. It erodes my self-regard and diminishes my self-worth. Obliterates my self-esteem. And so I make a vow to myself, a solemn vow, to stay away from him. Nil exposure. It'll be as if he no longer exists. I'll be better then, I'm sure of it. Once I get past the terrible feelings that come from breaking away from my soul's God-ordained trajectory.
<p/>
I’m not suicidal. Not right this minute, anyway. I’ve tried before, tried twice and failed twice. Once by wrist-slashing and once with barbiturates. The first two death-rehearsals fizzled out and fell completely flat. The next time I'll be more purposeful. The third time's the charm, isn't that what they say?
<p/>
Best to rest. Tomorrow I'll most likely feel better. At the liminal partition between insomnolence and somnolence, my thoughts turn, all-too-predictably, once more, unalterably, to him.
<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-77596942379975757972024-03-26T17:44:00.005+13:002024-03-26T19:54:28.598+13:00Omnia (Wild Cat)<p/><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMtce1yY_wExJGWjk-7Qm4Z-0xipFzBvTh2S4r0qmfkCCmhMMmX-1MwTkgAp_6dmoGoXv_cuJkhkDHhksosbiUw8K9WlYlYUDsgDfmmDe3zKv6SkKO01l8VvKFx8fKq5_OSBoe_IEauWAjNC5gZT-VpyRjscW4wlDhdirfQxb2KzfJKA1hDOHpFD2Cqws/s2048/Omnia%20%28Wild%20Cat%29.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMtce1yY_wExJGWjk-7Qm4Z-0xipFzBvTh2S4r0qmfkCCmhMMmX-1MwTkgAp_6dmoGoXv_cuJkhkDHhksosbiUw8K9WlYlYUDsgDfmmDe3zKv6SkKO01l8VvKFx8fKq5_OSBoe_IEauWAjNC5gZT-VpyRjscW4wlDhdirfQxb2KzfJKA1hDOHpFD2Cqws/s320/Omnia%20%28Wild%20Cat%29.png"/></a></div>
<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-49056620119009962272024-03-26T16:21:00.004+13:002024-03-26T16:21:43.967+13:00Offering<p/><br>
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<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-70179338777042503552024-03-26T16:18:00.006+13:002024-03-26T16:18:58.144+13:00Double Entendre<p/><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr79QOXEXjRzATVia9cHsEOJrbwo2nEHpasW8PaLnT80ng3bMSoGD-tkkc9hMIq2FgILitagkuKvJw8jcEr8L63Aa5sl_WMCSYjp1XRVmiHnAHBGeRn8NpdT5DJxh_RLQYr71CnnMZXffeoQv7PHOO9ZPEfTkCpI7-3tPMF5iBybu6lgwLch8Gm8uu0F4/s1024/Untitled%20Cleaned%20Up.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr79QOXEXjRzATVia9cHsEOJrbwo2nEHpasW8PaLnT80ng3bMSoGD-tkkc9hMIq2FgILitagkuKvJw8jcEr8L63Aa5sl_WMCSYjp1XRVmiHnAHBGeRn8NpdT5DJxh_RLQYr71CnnMZXffeoQv7PHOO9ZPEfTkCpI7-3tPMF5iBybu6lgwLch8Gm8uu0F4/s320/Untitled%20Cleaned%20Up.jpg"/></a></div>
<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-19934513041839380652024-03-26T15:02:00.003+13:002024-03-26T16:45:58.326+13:00Tasmantis. Chapter Twenty-Four: V + V = W<p/><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTjihNebJtkKdP5LMOYP-HA83CN-NqCqEg1qdLW7aHyDzhw1jZ3P638PohxElpIzxS3C7DmcbUIx0nXPccJGHjknCiFHG7_psGMboUD3o-j-7O1GhcTdTnpjUUeJxNsAzOP-R1AG1b2BAHqAMtW3OIfnek8xNVvkHvcxI2PJVVKnux3daWHTjRcKzt7YE/s1024/Portrait%20of%20Venesia.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTjihNebJtkKdP5LMOYP-HA83CN-NqCqEg1qdLW7aHyDzhw1jZ3P638PohxElpIzxS3C7DmcbUIx0nXPccJGHjknCiFHG7_psGMboUD3o-j-7O1GhcTdTnpjUUeJxNsAzOP-R1AG1b2BAHqAMtW3OIfnek8xNVvkHvcxI2PJVVKnux3daWHTjRcKzt7YE/s320/Portrait%20of%20Venesia.png"/></a></div>
<p/><br>
Portrait of Venesia (Taken by Venexia before their forced separation, after their parents discovered their incestuous relationship).
<p/><br>
The Love Letters of Venesia and Venexia. First Letter from Venesia.
<p/><br>
My Dearest, Darling V.
<p/>
I am writing to you from the holiday house on Lake Orta. It started snowing two days ago. Père and Mère are always fussing about, hovering around, getting on my last nerve. They're always asking me how I am, how I'm coping without you, as if they even care. We are cooped up together here like sardines in a tin. I never get a moment to myself. I wish they'd just let me suffer on my own.
<p/>
Every day they buy me a new gift. It's usually something expensive, a piece of jewellery or a rare book, the other day it was a first edition copy of Lolita signed by Nabokov, something I would usually love, but because I know they're doing this to try and make up for separating us, I won't accept any of these "gifts" which are actually, in truth, bribes offered in exchange for my fealty and my affections. I won't forgive them for doing this, taking you away from me, not ever, I promise you that.
<p/>
Last night, when I was getting dressed for bed, a fox came to my window. He looked at me and I looked back at him. His eyes were unbearably sad. I went to get him a bowl of water but when I came back he was gone. I wanted to tell him how beautiful he was. But I didn't have the chance to. I can't say what, exactly, but there was something about him that reminded me of you. Did you come visit me last night in your dreams? Were you the sad fox?
<p/>
How are things in Berlin? How are you bearing up? Are you as lonely as I am? Do you miss me? I miss you terribly.
<p/>
Write soon. Send your letter to Alicine, at the address written on the back of the envelope. She'll give it to me when I get back to Paris.
<p/>
I send you kisses, my love. We must find a way to be together again soon. I love you more than I can possibly say.
<p/>
Your Sistren Other and True Soul's Wife
<p/>
V.
<p/><br>
Fast forward two years. Venesia and Venexia meet for the first time since their separation.
<p/><br>
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<p/><br>
Fast forward five years. V and V have been reunited for half a decade and have since married. Their mother, Omnia, committed suicide not long after they were wed. The twins continue their research into anti-time architecture and anti-time processing with the end goal of constructing a time vessel to travel back into the past to re-write their mother's fate. They have, over the course of their lives, become even more perverse than before, with their latent pathologies spawning a proliferation of erotogenic modes and forms and shapes and codes and configurations. They have also acquired a polysubstance drug habit, which they have tried to kick, but, regrettably, have as yet been unable to.
<p/><br>
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<p/><br>
Fast forward two years. Venesia has given birth to Venexia's child. A daughter, they chose the name Siaan for her. The name is pronounced "See-arne." When Venesia discovered she was pregnant, she stopped drinking and taking drugs. In solidarity with her, and for the sake of their unborn child, as well as his own well-being, Venesia also brought an end to his substance abuse.
<p/><br>
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<p/><br>
Venesia + Venexia = V + V.
<p/>
V + V = W.
<p/>
W = Double U.
<p/>
Double U = Ursula and Udo.
<p/>
Ursula + Udo = U + U.
<p/>
U + U = Double You.
<p/><br>
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<p/><br>
The sister on the left is called "Coa." The sister on the right is called "Atl."
<p/>
"Coatl" is a Nahuatl term which can be translated as both "twin" and "serpent."
<p/><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjcbrq1xQ2rUzN6gnivwaopLjWZtnRh56qJqmpUVZG6uGHkIMXew9MwX4aUeX_A82IaEweCw4VLgIegGgPlzN1eZClxwcneDpUgEuTykCCx58sqaMq7pwVKossrCri4Ps-lbetVD7k-Ay5n15USKdIQ3Y2NGZESPxqhgK46tek8kNEErLQp_--n4irMKE/s624/Fledgling%20Desires.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="624" data-original-width="495" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjcbrq1xQ2rUzN6gnivwaopLjWZtnRh56qJqmpUVZG6uGHkIMXew9MwX4aUeX_A82IaEweCw4VLgIegGgPlzN1eZClxwcneDpUgEuTykCCx58sqaMq7pwVKossrCri4Ps-lbetVD7k-Ay5n15USKdIQ3Y2NGZESPxqhgK46tek8kNEErLQp_--n4irMKE/s320/Fledgling%20Desires.png"/></a></div>
<p/><br>
His beautiful teenage cousin, Ursula, on the occasion of their first meeting, wore a black veil, long black leather gloves laced up to her elbows, black louis-heeled boots, riding pants made of mesh filled with potassium powder and selenite crystals, and pale nylons shined with iodine vapor, jet black, slippery with the taste of a stolen kiss, or a bite hard enough on her bare throat to leave a purple blemish on her pallid white skin.
<p/>
She was an unusually smart girl, industrious and cheerful, her red hair restrained in a French roll, her face twisted into an expression of coy adolescence, painted over with a translucent glaze of depraved wickedness, her elfin eyebrows shot up past the starry regions and the celestial vault, into the safe, secluded nape of a sleeping seraphim's wing.
<p/>
Ursula frequently dreamt dreams of eating her cousin, Udo. "Devouring," in her description, with "aggression, fanaticism, untrammeled force; piles of filleted organs, limbs, tumorous growths, dorsal fins, gams, spurs, hymens, gonads, and other prohibited delicacies rising up over the two of them, to bury their bodies beneath mountains of pink snow" which were in truth their own innards, disemboweled.
<p/>
Udo, now 16, yearned for Ursula, recently turned 14, with a desire that cannot be prescribed to simple lust with its singed thoughts and never gentle impulses. And yet he was terrified of her.
<p/>
Stalking around her bedroom, Ursula was wearing a prosthetic brace, which made her walk in ever-diminishing concentric circles, and gave her stride an asymmetrical, ambling gait, like someone born with spina bifida, a brace that she herself had designed and assembled, along with a second for, as she put it, her "grotesque, distorted arm and its sinister cross sign". Udo saw her discovering nothing about him interesting at all except his "tactics of make-up application or posing nude in the back garden in front of the neighbour's wife." So, she "very gradually and very carefully, cultivated an intrinsic quality of insanity in him" for no other reason than to simply amuse herself. She saw him as a boy piston, lubricated with the salves of lunacy, hammering away at her sainted gash, and her, a girl monster with her legs spread, her eye balls crunching with the nausea of his extreme passion, her eyes piercing straight through him with a greedy, throbbing nullity.
<p/>
She terrorized him and mesmerized him in equal measure. This made him want her even more.
<p/>
Udo was an exemplar of The Ultrasadian Man trapped in a vesicle of malign intelligence, caring for a captive heroine who twines her gamine legs around his bony elbows, as she hums the 2nd Movement of Beethoven's 7th symphony into the warped, deviating, hypercolorated grooves at whose mouths lie, with no cover and no privacy, the contents of his core. Facing swathes of unremitting light her sweetened sweat runs down and swoons the wood beneath on tender leather tongues, swineskins quantifined and oiled. It creosoted cream-men. Plancksplit the grain itself, rumbleshelled the tundras.
<p/>
And cowed into submission by the sheer curiosity of his prey, he let her fuck him on the traffic island as the cars circumnavigated their bodies, as they honked helliously while veering about, squealing voices and tyres, making obscene gestures out their windows, Ursula moaning angrily, playing with a lemon wedge sticking out of his asshole, silently defying them all.
<p/>
Are Ursula and Udo Venesia and Venexia? Might be.
<p/>
Are Ursula and Udo you and me? Let’s see.
<p/><br>
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<p/><br>
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<p/><br>
Amlehn's face liquifies as he shifts into another dimension. In this parallel reality he finds himself embedded in an instrument panel, his eyes have become dials; his nose, a gauge; his mouth, bulbs of unknown purpose. Amlehn looks down at a hybrid lifeform composed of love-birds and the twisted metal of a car crash. A man is seated to the right with a giant Mulberry silkworm. Mulberry silk were the panties the character Omnia wore in Amlehn's novel (when she wore them, that is, as most of the time she was wont to go au naturale beneath her skirt or dress). A line artifact left over at the bottom right of the centre panel connects to a crudely-drawn line which, in turn, connects to an abstract geometric configuration. This form appears to be cradling a pair of lovers, an older male and a younger female, who are engaged in an impassioned act of coitus. Part of the geometric form connects with a Roman relic of a crucifixion. The rusty nail penetrates the wood as the man penetrates the girl.
<p/><br>
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<p/><br>
The trigon vessel arrives. A trinity of geysers ejaculate. The skull of Oannes is attended by W whose virtual hand sign translates into the English tongue as: "Knowing Heaven."
<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-52095905635505535502024-03-26T14:51:00.005+13:002024-03-26T16:44:58.680+13:00Venesia and Master Han<p/><br>
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<p/><br>
Even thought Venesia and Venexia had been separated by their parents, they still managed to meet once in person, face-to-face, in Berlin, and many other times, partially, a body part at a time, through a jerry-rigged quantum gloryhole.
<p/>
When their mother and father discovered this, they were greatly enraged and then after they calmed down, gravely concerned.
<p/>
They concocted a plan to send Venesia to the Far East. Both parents had been trained in a variety of different martials arts and decided, that Venesia would also benefit from the discipline, physically and mentally and emotionally and spiritually. Venexia was to continue with his studies in physics in Berlin and the informal therapy sessions with his aunt and the formal ones with his therapist outside the home.
<p/>
And so, Venesia was sent away to live and train the Shaolin Monastery, at the foot of the Songshan Mountain, near Denfeng, in China.
<p/>
Before she left, she dyed her hair from Titian red to a chestnut brown. In part as an act of defiance and a reflection of the radical life-change she was undertaking, and in part of a centuries old Chinese superstition, inherited from the Greeks, that redheads were witchcraft-practicing vampires. As Aristotle himself commented: "The reddish are of bad character."
<p/>
Initially, life there was a major adjustment and was hard for her. But in time, she flourished, learning at a prodgigious pace, and becoming one of the most promising students training there.
<p/>
She seduced one of the monks, a Master Han, and began a sexual relationship with him. He gave her lavish gifts, took her on shopping sprees and nights out in Bejing. Eventually their affair was discovered and reported by one of the other students, a boy who had always lusted after Venesia himself. Master Han was expelled from the monastery. Venesia remained a further year at the temple. She never saw or heard from Master Han again.
<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-43099344437014971482024-03-26T14:32:00.017+13:002024-03-28T09:18:38.966+13:00Fur<p/><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuM6XswvNI-uis4h9tGtVpF-SlvABIext-cSE-qNnNX4EP0HAcxHewZHEiRIbDOkIcQEjtXq2zfc-Ln9BMZ6fS2G0yg6rth0v_dpIJkHKpzmOwtYpP3qOc3BWyNgeeh2e_TuAv9W_bU4m1HNr9eJtfHIJ-kEvjwY5ez2Y5ccp4n7S8NRWJ4APRn51oRz4/s1024/suigenerisart7_42508_hyperdetailed_baroque_a_french_young_girl__140ebcef-5547-4daa-aa19-8561a1e31f4d.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuM6XswvNI-uis4h9tGtVpF-SlvABIext-cSE-qNnNX4EP0HAcxHewZHEiRIbDOkIcQEjtXq2zfc-Ln9BMZ6fS2G0yg6rth0v_dpIJkHKpzmOwtYpP3qOc3BWyNgeeh2e_TuAv9W_bU4m1HNr9eJtfHIJ-kEvjwY5ez2Y5ccp4n7S8NRWJ4APRn51oRz4/s320/suigenerisart7_42508_hyperdetailed_baroque_a_french_young_girl__140ebcef-5547-4daa-aa19-8561a1e31f4d.png"/></a></div>
<p/><br>
Omnia is wearing her sable fur coat, her South Sea pearl and silver pendant, and nothing else.
<p/>
I'm trying to write and it's not coming easily. I don't have time for her shenanigans. And I tell her so, in no uncertain terms. She screws up her face. "Do you have time for this then?" She says, pulling the fur open to expose her own genital fur beneath the coat. She pops the cork on the bottle of champagne she had gamesomely secreted behind her back and pours the aerated frothy liquid down her belly, cascading over her adorable (and bewitching) outie belly button, streaming effervescently through her luxuriant auburn pubic thatch.
<p/>
Her eyes are replete with neutron stars. The ringed irises descend from the air like a pair of lovely blue swallows and alight on my stiffening cock. The micro claws dig in, ungently, and find purchase in my smooth speckled foreskin. “Get down, drink,” Omnia exhorts. Her index finger turned upwards, sky-aiming, then down, earth-marshalling. “Be a good little doggy for me and drink deep from my vaginal wellhead, from my bubbling up and babbling over Fountain of Eternal Youth.”
<p/>
I can’t say I ever possessed any incipient urge to be humilated by a woman. That is, until I met her. Then I not only welcomed the humiliation but I vehemently craved it. I most especially enjoyed watching her suck off stranger’s cocks in the gloryhole while she jerks me off with a white opera-gloved hand. Or, on special occassions, we’d get someone over to fuck her on the bed in the guest room while I filmed the spectacle and masturbated along to it. I remember reading that Dali liked to see Gala get screwed by a coterie of youthful, handsome men and I never quite understood it, it seemed so wrongheaded then, but now, with Omnia, my libido had been turned upside down and inside out and back to front, and such sportive play now seems not only desirable, but ineluctable and imperative. I'm shamed to say it, but when I reflect on it, it makes my sex very hard, so hard the muscle strains against it's skin-sheath, and hurts me a little. After our séance à trois partner has left, Omnia's favorite pasttime is to spread herself out on the bed and gorge herself on grapes, as I lick his sperm out of her fuzzy crotch, out of her flavourful pelvic organ, out of her seed-sprayed vaginal space.
<p/>
Caressing the top of my head with a swirling motion, then getting ahold of the back of my head with her clawlike clutch and, pulling my kisser, into her sweltering crotch. “There is always one escape from the pain of being,” she cries, “straight on into wickedness!”
<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-24754234666378122192024-03-26T14:17:00.006+13:002024-03-26T14:55:48.286+13:00Venesia and Venexia: Einstein-Rosen Bridged Gloryhole from Paris To Berlin<p/><br>
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<p/><br>
After they discovered their twins had been, for quite some time, involved in a clandestine sexual relationship, the parents, Paul and Omnia, Separated them. Venesia stayed with her parents in Paris, and Venexia was sent to Berlin to live with his Aunty Fay, a psychotherapist.
<p/>
Together, Venesia and her brother, create a stable wormhole in space-time through which they engage in types and modes of perversely-intimate and intimately-perverse sex-play.
<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-16686943638193335322024-03-26T14:08:00.001+13:002024-03-26T14:08:48.905+13:00Portrait of Venesia on the Cusp of Womanhood with an Attendant Surveillance Drone To Ensure She Does Not Clandestinely Meet with Her Twin Brother and Go To Bed With Him<p/><br>
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<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-36378378131111312262024-03-26T14:06:00.002+13:002024-03-26T15:49:35.333+13:00The Swimming Lesson (A Text Written by Venesia for Her Brother Venexia During Their Parentally-Forced Separation)<p/><br>
it is not possible to get married until one has turned two years old<br>
and then you can only marry your own sister<br>
if she is dead, you may marry any girl you choose<br>
if she is alive, you cannot marry anyone else<br>
because you will come to despise your wife as being, by comparison to your twin, much too much of an other.<br>
you may only marry someone who looks exactly like yourself<br>
but you must never tell anyone that you are going to marry her<br>
because if you do she will die before the night of the marriage<br>
and so will you as well<br>
you may only marry someone whom you have met in a dream<br>
and you must not say anything about this either<br>
for the penalty of speech is to have your tongue torn out<br>
with red-hot pincers and nailed to a tree<br>
your lips are sewn together and your eyelids sewed shut<br>
then you are taken to a house where a hundred people<br>
are sitting round tables drinking wine<br>
and eating roast beef with mint sauce<br>
they all wear black masks and they eat and drink without speaking<br>
while a man plays a concert violin and another blows a conch shell.
<p/>
the first thing you must learn is how to walk<br>
so that no one notices you are lame<br>
learn to speak with your mouth closed<br>
so that no one sees the marks of teeth on your face<br>
never let anyone know what you think or feel<br>
never laugh loudly in front of others<br>
never cry in front of others<br>
always remember that the world is very ugly<br>
and if you want something then you must steal it<br>
steal a kiss from a sleeping woman<br>
who is a thousand years old but has the face of a six-year-old child<br>
a child who is afraid of the toppled chairs of nightfall and the flashing blades of approaching dawn<br>
but not afraid of the abusive father's trouser hose.<br>
the second thing you must learn is how to love<br>
so that no one can see your heart in your eyes<br>
and no one will know what you long for.
<p/>
you remember the sound of a hand slapping a child's face<br>
the sound it makes is far more important than the suffering it causes<br>
i just thought of how i look now and how i would look if someone took a picture of me to send to you<br>
you must have some reason for not wanting to be caught by the heel by me<br>
such as being afraid of your own shadow<br>
when the fear subsides you must learn to dance<br>
with your body, of course, but not with your hands<br>
because when Siegmund and Sieglinde dance they only point to their feet<br>
they do not touch each other's bodies.<br>
when I was praying last night God (or the devil) answered me<br>
his voice was like a warm, gentle breeze<br>
he spoke unto me and said:
<p/>
falling in love is a lot like a swimming lesson<br>
but a swimming lesson which has been reversed back-to-front<br>
if you wish to learn to swim, my little one<br>
then first you must learn to drown.
<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-24250284335716977922024-03-26T13:05:00.002+13:002024-03-26T13:05:15.520+13:00The Advent of the Ectoplasmic Typewriter (The Artist Is Merely a Vessel for Unseen Forces Beyond His or Her Own Sensory Ken)<p/><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-_UvxIkk8MCD1hFbNFT_Lf1NuzhVJ4VuNrQdj21k8qd_z72n5IKMLCNAzCWtsOYziorkcWDByrlmsQoZW3GmNtmrM60-ODasN8hrFvJxBidyx_L5tnNv7Pj7UkwmiM0ne8vB0TbIcDpbT1AFDrm05jYC9Uz9vXoh5X4qYJd7l4YMYiW-z839pojzkkdg/s1030/The%20Advent%20of%20the%20Ectoplasmic%20Typewriter%20%28The%20Artist%20Is%20Merely%20a%20Vessel%20for%20Unseen%20Forces%20Beyond%20His%20or%20Her%20Own%20Sensory%20Ken%29.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="1030" data-original-width="660" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-_UvxIkk8MCD1hFbNFT_Lf1NuzhVJ4VuNrQdj21k8qd_z72n5IKMLCNAzCWtsOYziorkcWDByrlmsQoZW3GmNtmrM60-ODasN8hrFvJxBidyx_L5tnNv7Pj7UkwmiM0ne8vB0TbIcDpbT1AFDrm05jYC9Uz9vXoh5X4qYJd7l4YMYiW-z839pojzkkdg/s320/The%20Advent%20of%20the%20Ectoplasmic%20Typewriter%20%28The%20Artist%20Is%20Merely%20a%20Vessel%20for%20Unseen%20Forces%20Beyond%20His%20or%20Her%20Own%20Sensory%20Ken%29.png"/></a></div>
<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7254439000333712869.post-78952075463532885292024-03-26T12:25:00.004+13:002024-03-26T12:25:28.480+13:00Meditation on the Impermanence of Innocence<p/><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF89CR7FP8zeIT_IXXU59ephH7qons01aR1d1WQsvGfNxq7Grzg8Duaj74g1DFakN1GfoOvVIlMUTrGuJB3Mm8qmL4M7rX2JD8qTRtvlBYgOy7TysuuIMUmjftOjBiQVhCRC_aaGM8ZHGl_buv_sbtgmzu9pu-ISWQpr9GXlGbbCCmrex9lSL7bP8L/s994/Draft%203.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="704" data-original-width="994" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF89CR7FP8zeIT_IXXU59ephH7qons01aR1d1WQsvGfNxq7Grzg8Duaj74g1DFakN1GfoOvVIlMUTrGuJB3Mm8qmL4M7rX2JD8qTRtvlBYgOy7TysuuIMUmjftOjBiQVhCRC_aaGM8ZHGl_buv_sbtgmzu9pu-ISWQpr9GXlGbbCCmrex9lSL7bP8L/s320/Draft%203.png"/></a></div>
<p/><br>Paul Amlehnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11165152583480718067noreply@blogger.com