.11 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Demeter,
You fucker!

Quit rolling your eyes!

You’re rolling your eyes!

Quit making that fucking face!

The next cat you lock it with, he’s gonna get the details of the scene, with those eyes.

Goddammit! IF it is a cat!!

AHHHHHH!

MAX

.12 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Isis,

Hecate says you have no breasts. Your lungs must be grey. If I could unzip your sternum, I could examine your lungs more closely. Film them. I always imagine that if I tasted your breath, your flavor would be musty and leave a bitter aftertaste. & perhaps a burning sensation in my throat. Burning perspiration-greasing-up-fuzzy-legs kind of thing.

Sincerely, MAX

.13 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Hina,
May I borrow your vagina for the evening? I need a hat. In case of inclement weather.

The last time I wore your vagina, you weren’t sure I looked good in a hat. It didn’t match my jacket, so I clashed.

Hmmmm. MAX

.14  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Demeter,
I must paint a nude of you; STYLE: Derain’s work 1906, just before he lost the avant edge & digressed into neo-classical disposals. Poised on the edge of cubism. Just after fauvism.

Must depict you with thick neon brushstrokes. To justify your form.

You must be naked. To stimulate my passion.

To make my fist create.

Sure.

MAX

.15 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Lillith,
Ya got fangs & ya want to bite.

But Sal never gave ya that chance. In the savage nightclub (See “The Hunger”), you are Susan Serandon. Ya got a couple of newd scenes, popping forth. In a booth, ya hunger for Sal & invite him to ya room (for action? ). So ya get in there on the third floor, & no one is home, & the candles are blazing, & he looks at ya & he sees Susan Serandon with fangs, & he shrieks & he bolts down the stairs, terrified that he will be undone by the cornucopia of ya soul eating mouth.

CRAZY!

But he did decide on his own to come up to ya room.

Sure,
MAX

.16  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Demeter,
After giving you the quiz, I’m gripping pieces of the puzzle. This would be the sauce of life. Since I can’t touch you through the stonewall.

Ah, but you haven’t had the sauce, not in the best way.

Man, I touched an ice cube and shivered.

You exude the heat of the seventh level of hell.

You imagine the finger.

Men want to eat you for the sauce. & I’m one of those paratrooping boogiemen.

You hate the shovel, it’s a weapon, it tears through your paper, man, you didn’t like the fit.

Are you comfortable on the couch?

Hmmmm. Too much analysis. Lie down, I nominate myself to climb inside you & tickle your feathers.

Thanx, MAX

.17 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Isis,
Mighty one, the camel dangling from your mouth is my dingy.

No it’s not, it’s but a cigarette.

In the pale moonlight, I dreamed that I was sanding your lip.

Dangling for animal life on the stones. Don’t drop me! It burns! The sweet reverie never ends.

Delightful, MAX

.18 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Venus,
The secret revealed. You physique, you big thighs, you big boobs, matronly. Big dirt mama, you posture, you stature. Plus you ambition, you maturity, you gigantic actress. Birther of planets. Big Big Big.

THIS IS NOT WHAT YOU DESIRE.

You want to be a little pixie flying from flower to ear, tracing itches on the unwary. Your thighs, boobs, the whole body, you’d like to discard it all & build another image for yourself.

You’re smaller than me now, I’ve been forced to re-perceive you.

On the subway train, I look at your profile. I notice the tinkling, water quality on the edge of your lime colored eye, & the peach fuzz mustache on your lip. The flourescent lights on the train give your skin a cadaverous hue. You stare at the rushing walls of the tunnel, at blurred lights through grousty windows.

You, Venus, the most beautiful woman in the universe.

Highest regards,
MAX

.19 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Isis, o Mighty Isis,
In Godard’s film, “My Life to Live” aka “It’s My Life” (I forget the French title), Anna Karina is you, smoking cigarette after cigarette, moving from bedroom to bedroom. That kind of independent movement. No benefactors.

Her hair looks quite dainty. As does yours, right after the cut. & sometimes those little specs you wear make you look oh, so quaint. Your voice is slurred if a cigarette is hanging out of your mouth.

Chain smoking goddess, with a hundred lovers, a hundred customers, & a hundred and one ways to pound pyramids with style.

In this image lies a pie slice of your appeal.

Yes, MAX

.20 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Ix Chel,
Just got off the street.

I was thirsty, but you had run out of wine, so you served me a dainty glass of your finest menstrual blend. I used your tampon as a teabag, to take out a bit of the tangy aftertaste. Nevertheless, always a delicate blend of the choicest herbs and spices for just the right mood, a deep rich color & a fine natural aroma.

Sure, MAX