Spiderleg [1959]

Soft skin and purple daze of the heart. It’s bruising from all the slow torture. I told them fast and never with the arm straps. But do they ever listen? Those silly mechanism administers of pain. This is a sentence. Is not. We’re not scare-mongering.
In a blank white room with flood lights, she arches her back, arms stretching upward, whispering with the lick of the tongue, “what were you saying about the soft skin?” Well, it was Sunday. “And?” Thighs. Mostly thighs. I could live there. Soft licky lickable woman fruit. Mmm...Did I mention it was Sunday? “The Sabbath?” No.
And at the curling leggy grip of the spider I...I? Nobody. This is a story about nobody. The sky, well, it’s blue. So we presume. Tree falling in the forest, subjectivity, subjectivity, etc. Then perhaps no sky even without subject-hood. Okay, scratch it all to hell! Spider. Yes, one that will do. Octogonical occularity. Eight by eight. Color? How about not. Grey sky. Grey sky at night! Warning! Warning! Spider approaching! Approaching what? Oh, good point. Okay then. A spider. Umm...builds a web. Yea, that’s the ticket, baby!
Many hours later that spider finds herself happy situated in her fine homely web. The furniture all arranged, the hi-fi tele that mom got her as a gift a blaring loudy loud. What’s it sound like? Hell if I know, Cedric. Hell if I know. Oh right, cooking in the oven. Alles gut. But...
But? She has no masculine presence to father her several many-legged, many-eyed offspring. Oh, what is Spider Rider Rix-Dix Dider ever to do? How to find a man? Meeting people is so hard these days. Maybe an arachnid dance club and couple sips of fly blood gin fizzly. Or a look into the personal adds. Yes, yes! Single green female seeks male to populate her web. No particulars. Bring sperm. Single orange male seeks SOF or male, open to experimentation, long flights in the wind, and bird hunting.
You psychotic beaver! Wha’ the hellsa gonna’ take wi’ dat fuckin’ arsthahal? How the hellsa gets rippin’ wi’ a go’ damn shtory li’ tha’? But ooh! it’s so good to be clean. Subjectivity, I’ll give you disorder! I mean...subjectivity...heh. Little too much on the fly blood. It’s the Spanish one that will get you.
Ooh! Pinchy pinch a little cheeky cheek boy. Hoopsa– ‘nough of that! No plagiarism, or “allusions” as you rooty tooty no so pembo intellectuals call it. Hand me that ratchet. Clink de clink de cling. OOOH! THAT SLUT!
[Cut] No longer permitted. Foolish child. Always gettin’ about on that merry-go-round. Exercise daily to avoid cancerous growth. Public disorder, I’ll give you public disorder.