October 27, 2021 ~ Leave a comment

KITCHEN

When you suggested making kitchen space for a washer and dryer, I considered your consolidation proposal and wondered if you would be snug within either machine and be open to hide and seek as you vibrate or rotate — an unattainable quaintness regarded in a bedraggled sufficiently dismissive spin. Kitchen, naturally, reclaims nothing, nor did I approach it with a quantifiable frame, but I must have, thereafter, a diffracted regionally held disgust — the twinge that keeps me at it.

The kitchen counter, with a pelvic height matching your groin, concentrated and sheathed while enveloped with a versatility that does nothing but tease and throw want for me to draw a disguised presence upon marble.

This stuff was understood, nothing to extract, no indelicacy, not a deterrent, could even be referred to as a promptitude of misguided assumptions based on utility space, basic cooking area so observed. You can roll and rinse and I dry or switch it, this rueful machinery in clutch before my intensified start, but actually only entangled by the measured presentability distinctly allotted.

September 29, 2021 ~ 1 Comment

REVENGE

There is no amplitude in my call, and any paraphernalia gives no backup, for you remain as I call you, "Revenge," solely a notion that comes as a title, conclusively framed, but as a belief to inquiry to lack of clarity, not encumbered, no singularity, only so much heat and want when I say "revenge," a literal push to further my wetness. "My revenge fucker," she thought — transparent separation to consent, so easily enveloped by the pronouncement’s frequency and the corollary’s solitude in no symmetry.

Revenge sleeps alone without blanket and waits for her, launched by no reasoned lassitude. Revenge rests without appraisal. She thought, "I cut him with my titling and I engross him in irregularities that only imply my exultant want." "I fuck Revenge to wet me up scrupulously and he never questions the excitement of incorrectness and never would follow if I would posit that you, Mr. Revenge, breaks despair, permitting an expatriation formed as repose, carried by "get" and "have."

July 28, 2021 ~ Leave a comment

MORE

Radiance aggresses any form of "more," the condition, resulting in future stuff fucking nothing, a timorousness that implements its compliment, abstraction, when I just want more, she thought, a set and necessary consequent, normalcy, pinned in a want hole, dishing out want stance, aggravated and undirected in an unsound, or not, push, confirmationally denying sublimity, neutrality, expedience. ‘More," the demand as functional dissolution in an assemblage, an appropriation stipulation, an innocuous interstitial spot. For instance, a dead tree gives more if that is all that is said, or as in an aleatory policy to assume more to dangle when faced to fuck, otherwise box it in and accentuate any graven want to require more, a formed deliquescence that rests in the naming of one part.

A no-name partner can grind a refined preciosity to counter stuff unconscionably; or she thought, he can stick his fingers on my molars and count them as more than generally assumed in that sad rummaged reciprocal edginess, so rattled and concurred from any noticeable recollection of his fuck attempts suggestively miscounting the positioned promptings, a distinction reshaped and transmitted between self and intimates, systemically analogous to a grid closure, as if any grid does not preclude a framed marking.

March 4, 2021 ~ Leave a comment

MERITOCRACY

Meritocratic advancement conforms to expected rational evaluation; consequently consider: fucking a spiritual guy is an introduction to incontinence. His augured soulful convergences designed to enhance his capacity’s ordained emblazoned attempts faulted to assist her positioning to sanction mingling with a verging-on-average fucker. Yet, in a dispatched synchronicity, his soul, ingrained, realized to proclaim, a regrouped granting, fissioned for leeway to advance and fall, even retrieved via imprecations distended to be viewed as functionally astute when most self-condemnatory, leaves her to concede in a pseudo turnabout that possibly she can fuck this dangled soul pointer and then long for what is not there — even accumulate his spectatorial absorbent recapitulations and form them in a retributive direction called "talent," but she cannot fuck away the dumbness preoccupied with the not there and his assumptions seated in such an implacable orchestration. However, there is a cleverness and heat in the perverse original alchemy of it: reduction in addition, progress in apology, applause in failure recognition — what kink she thought to watch this punctilious tedious fuck guy dismiss meritocratic logic’s foundational stance with reveries notched as advancements.

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FOREGIVENESS

Whether asking for or giving forgiveness you enroll an exigency that is noncommunicable and consequently permits a transmissible acceptance of no time determinant. If you cum too quickly, as you do at times, your depilatory counter oriented pubic hair focus does serve even in this most stretched form to place removal from the bone to insulate my predictable inflectionless response. Forgiveness is an instruction that has no strategy; however, your analogy got me hot through the threefold contexts you present: (1) your sleeping cock; (2) your referenced depilatory cream, a remover as is "forgiveness," framed by its denotative course; (3) your weird, yet evidenced plangent attempt to access a marginal correlative while it deliquesces as it is uttered — the absurdity, the ingrained precocity, its out of age acceptability, makes me forget, laugh, forgive.

Forgiveness rides delimited coordinates that functionally prevent an assembling. If I don’t care, I could forgive anything, but my memory remembers all rusting variants and weighs your charted verbal need. You take an assumed consensus bounded by ellipses, of course, as held by all "forgiveness consumers" that memory folds in the given "forgiveness offering," the request’s "yes/no" options, a stylistic prolix of equanimity that proffers implications of the good and humane, but never can you see the play, my limited one.

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EXPOSITION

Your sexual prowess is only of a mass market sort and, therefore, what is the predicate that explains my link to you? Your grammar, even when correct, is incorrect via a tediousness veiled by its own search. Your exposition to anything is a local deal seemingly never started, a cursory note to, at best, its billeted expectation. I don’t accept any formed line of ionization given forth or taken, edged with intent via you or me. We share an insolence geared to disregard development, but I see no partnered egalitarianism nevertheless, for you cannot twist any retort or declaration as I know I can. I can contradict myself and your syntax is consequently bewildered by its own "do it again my love." My equivocations have at least two part structures while probationally encased and outlined. Not providing is an experimentation mode.

When we fuck I get so wet thinking of you as my restrictive appositive; my there and not there construct, apposition applied parenthetically, incorrectly, the inexpressible exposition. No vileness. My leveled severity has a frequented greed, remained and amused. Disencumbered without any assembled outstretched variant is an inscription whose prospect is undermined by an expositional aside.

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MOTIVATION

Motivation is an introduction to nothing, but it is a fashionable incidental that disgusts me, dismisses you, you the expectant in step, more in a necessary argument to supersede "endeavor" in the continuum of "trying," but mister friend, "Fuck your want," for remember spit refrains mumbled and unnoticed, a roadside liquidity above saliva in the progression of/to "Oh no," but still rustles a "not at dinner time" placard, while phlegm in its density runs a pace to the "do excuse yourself, and all are subject to colds and flu." Notice how the phlegm disgust contingent can innocently counter itself with faked-out over-the-counter awareness-purchasing. Direction has nebulous detours that stumble to reconcile patterns that cough.

Yesterday to my rebukes you wanted your hardness to revamp a ravaged time to one of "ahhs" and interior delights, but consider the stretched flickers that looked for shape and form and recount the field before motivation wandered in and question how want can hold when so much played before the "try" factor.

I know my analogies are motivation’s discourse as in "fuck your metaphors in a dress-up unfeasible ploy," a decantation that lexically has no support in your buckled fuck there – not there extension, a parapet that moves to further the clarity as in how your softness consigns to remain with a wink trundled in a metaphor mirage.

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INTERPRET

Your interpretive prowess maintains an indelible intent that warrants the consequent presumption that your just completed endeavor made me cum and I feel slighted not by the dysfunctional junked up rapidity that does not even have time to emerge, but by your cognitive method that is so depressed as it rests never negotiating context. You are my discreet interpreter to the persevering sameness and, therefore, "slighted" fits as it panels convention and uniformity.

You read like you fuck and to interpret is your means and result. It is an occupational presence, a scrupulous accommodation to reconstruct an unacknowledged rehearsed avoidance. It is a secrecy titled as explorative and creative. My equanimity challenges itself and the imperturbable inertia forms as a discretion, which it is not. You interpret my premeditated extricated self as an altercation allayed by conclusions, accurate and dismissive, hurriedly sentenced as mere cognitive applicants and put to inadvertence, not far from your expressed readings, as we share these two charged variants, but I, as opposed to you, support a bewildering ephemeral interminable self-reproach that wants — so simple, only wants — a retrospective anything that can explicitly explain my somewhat jointed association to the crudity of your cognitive means.

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UXORIOUS

You somehow solicit, or appear to do so, and mesh a pandering intent with an uxorious state of being, and even though they demonstrate an equally familiar resolve, while their renderings provide not so nuanced differences, they conjoin in a felicitous capacity to make any woman expect more. There is a complicity between you and you that is relentless, actually a regimen, this strained servitude, a reactionary determined mess that gets me hot, but only via a self-fondled adherence to wait for the reason of your genuflected handling of it all.

You are a lack of presence, but if you ditch it you are invisible. Consequently, you enact a custodial bludgeoning, or at least try to, conscious or not, in assuming that your offering goes well. This schematic self-pillorying is your opening line that lost its assumptive full stop. Your degree of ardency remains undetermined, for it is offered gratuitously with no supplied rational attempt to mitigate an affront or any conceivably blamable wandering. I cannot detect any break in tone or substance from this impersonal repetitive rigging geared to cover any covert anxiety. Most women would, I suppose, see it as an offering, a quiet didactic undifferentiated monosyllabic imaged continuum, an absurdity perpetuating an ingrained measured, yet timorous subsumption that has entailed an arbitrary susceptibility to engender a pressing, at least from me, "What the fuck is this?" You are loved not for your proclivity to succumb − which this hollowed shabbiness does not surprisingly reflect − but for the way you ride obsequiousness to a norm, a mask suspended in affection, or not.

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CULTURE

Cultural affiliation as assumed sex hindrance has a degree of gentility. If the sex were much better, even a little more gratifying, the resulting cultural constraint accusation, inexorably ready to provide a transcutaneous reason for a stagnant mingling, would not be considered. There is an ephemeral individualized decorative delectation, an emboldened interminable daubing that holds blatancy as incomprehension. It is nontransferable, this form of democratic speculative indulgence that emblematically fuses unsayable lubricious conceits when nothing works.

If pillow talk says we fucked well, but it also acclaims your culture as an effacer of any transitional verbal accommodation, the discourse shows how you can be dumb, contradict, and cum in an imperious push.

Culture is a climate result that is novelistically registered and likened to when one partner thinks bad culture masticates potentially good sex. And, yet there is heat in differentiation and a consumed disregard for an inspired credited shared nearness.

When intimacy’s progression is thwarted, anything goes, and the immediacy of the misphrase can entangle "cultured" with "culture," but most likely not "culture vulture," but, of course, silliness is absent at pre-orgasmic peaks. However, upon being declared "cultured" and consequently ensnared by the so-called compliment, or if the recipient is clever and accordingly dismissive, but keeps the reaction quiet, a palpable intimacy is soon to be. "Cultured" inhabits a secular sensitivity that is misplaced even in its own alignment as a hectored culture offshoot. The wary, ill-positioned fucker scatters "my culture," occasionally substituted by "my upbringing," but such a termed reflectively expressed inwardness regarding an oral sex accentuated request, answered with a "my upbringing — no-way," is rare. The culture usage is advantageous, a sustainable primacy licensing, a group adherence, canonized and institutionalized; an absolution policy, savagely missing, sexually inherited – that upbringing stuff.

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ELUSIVE

Good touching many times is not independent from a former desiderated hold. Yet, it is of no matter, for even the listlessness of consequent rebuffed pretenses, occasionally framed as registered complaints, or grasps so attempted, move with an ingrained prescience to deflect the promised terms that can at best solely imply: be there steady as in a relative awareness; entwine in a modified action — its recourses when the disintegrated expectation incarnates the rigor with reprimand and collective lip embraces.

However, the abstraction deems itself necessary to affect a fashionable exigency to traverse the dismissed and the disdained when love and heat want full weight. I want the onslaught she thought, as did he: their corresponding espoused polemic contending inescapably within an Intimacy, blatantly hinged, thoughts more formally clasped, nothing given: not to be, to be, the errant substantive singularity, a kiss inducer: the indecency in a collective remorse, that fractured centrality, fostering that confirmation.

Love has its postured divide and, aware or not, if love fully is, it predicates an embraced finality, or as she said and he repeated: barrage me in your smeared delinquent whole, and keep a standpoint of disaffection, provide the room for the packed expansionist embrace, but keep it as talk, or as they further echoed: our conjoined anxiety heats a beckoned causticity, this helpless, pitched, maneuvered, necessary disbelief.

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FOREPLAY

Foreplay is a term presented only after-play when play could have been better, much better. It is an abandonment, an immitigable dissent from what the other thought went well, empirically imported in a mode problematically adequate without details: mister, your perverted sequencing is a curiosity, an untimeliness that ignores integration, while providing dissolution to what did not start. I question the indicative stimulation, an argument that affirms ordinary disregard and I posit an assurance — do explain. To apprehend what is not, not why the not, is to transfer an indeterminacy to a bewilderment that holds naught. I back up the missing component with a truth held by my truth, an immanently intervening recourse inveighing against linked possibilities to dismiss my horny-hurt.

"Get right to it" has its place as well, many happy times, and when foreplay so deposited — sediment thoughts — interstices between initial clear cut heat and the ludicrous need to arouse the already risen, the wanting: a contextual malfeasance, an insolence to reassure an outstretched ventured stylized implemented embellished immobility to know when.

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ORGASM

Orgasmic sex detours are prefigured in anguish and conjured from exhalations not capable to recast the disconsolate participants. There is an austerity to this encounter with self-betrayal, as the process supports a disguised solemnity that shaves excess to the not evaluative; this staunchly endowed litany takes the matter: the felt love, the attempt itself and its ensuing performance bravery, the physical weight of body want, the caress’ undefined contact spots, the whimsicality shown when coupled with an ardency to complete, the not calibrated degree of skin to skin pressure, the suspense. "Our fuck," they chorus, "has circumstance; our imbricated moral orgasmic weave is a reminded understanding realized in certainty." Yes, all true, all cool, but non-cum based is this empathetically induced miscasting. It is actually a wet moral discourse that seeps an ordained tenderness.

A feigned moaned finality yelp or the substitute summation privilege has a discounted strength held by remorse, this muted familiarity, a sureness brought by what we all know: that air has much cum, so based, and when formulated in respiratory evidence the empirical reality has no shagginess. But, when said in chorus, attired in a thumbs up breastplate, outstretched in an intermingled acutely recognized operating mode, a lingered wheedling takes the extra-lucid mark loaded with "no one can know our deal my honey demurely positioned one." It is not an expressed causticity to state that orgasmic partner unity is hierarchically perched and that a dispatched, suspect, relativistic openness plays a homespun forthrightness, an accordance to need, unbeknownst to the dangerous inception.

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NONNEGOTIABLE

"Nonnegotiable," when stated, or read as decreed, offers inadvertently an expositional judicial element, an ordinance strapped to its own execution, a twisted stringent shorthand, an impassioned multi-syllabication instilling fatigue, a hands up immediacy, an acquiescence that overrules, unless it does not, and, therefore, a plausible consequent contemptuous smile may peek forth beckoning for a less loaded admissible verbosity.

The semi-monosyllabic "do it again and again" has been rendered often in blissful adamant terms and suffixed with the imprimatur that stops discourse: nonnegotiable. It is love’s dam, a reprisal to disaggregated interventional satisfaction. The context here presents an argument that prevents reallocating masqueraded intent with nebulous assumptions. Since there had to be a springboard for "again" to be, the caveat’s staccato presence, its conveyed repetitiveness, promotes an "all talk, no action" consideration that is nevertheless shut out, for "nonnegotiable" has a warmth, an imperial interest that sidetracks indifference and even its own aggressive invocations. It forms a two way internalized symmetrical impossibility, this declaration, this chronicled themed variation superimposed on a hung impression.

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SECRETS

Secrets are assumed to intrinsically intercalate ancillary resistance to the invariant impositions and unarticulated claims referenced as need, and expected by all inquirers, coupled or not. Secrets promote disarray, have an attendant norm embodied as supplemental scatterings not open for commentary, even the circumstantial sort while forming one word, not unexpected, exhortations that casually preclude the supposed missing complements. Or, "Without secrets you are naked and seduction, therefore, is a misconception," as well as the cautionary, but not immediately always pertinent, "Predatory clarity spins out tedious developmental tease, vitalistic stuff askew" and, finally, a seemingly mutinous pronouncement: "No secrets push love to a melodic parlance, a reproducible disregard, disgust, a standard title not to be cognitively furthered."

It is the sledge hammer approach to a missing case of ambiguity; it is taking forthrightness to a nostalgic perversion. Elusiveness is the counter figure to the everyday, a suction to drag the equable. "I cum my defined darling as honesty affronts truth’s liquidity, but tell me anything, my darling, in your inviolate, incantatory summons for the replay. My approbatory love regimen, its engineered declarations, a sometime intermediary, to figure the trodden and attenuated, to validate the implicated, holds or holds not an irrelevancy, a fantasy constructed in a worrisome ratio to becloud."

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DUMB

Dumb, when ascribed to one’s intimate partner, besieges the catalytic possibility to redefine the assessment; obvious self-interest cannot even enable a retreat within the periodic frame. There is (an) inconsequence to understanding, for the term so isolated designates a paralysis to not grant there is no stated possible addendum to the dismemberment, unless the recipient thinks just kiss me; cut the absurdity. Lingering saliva exchanges have an IQ embodiment grammar. Even adequate sex never screams "dumb," and certainly not with sign language dismissal inscriptions, for gee whiz sex has a sweep up quotient that precludes the big dumb repellent charge. However, when friendship and the couple as roommate sensibility housed in "nice guy or girl," set in, and cuddle sounds like fuddle, dumb takes a mold positioning and inculcates the dumb one’s brain in a luminescent sheen.

Missing then is the "beauty in the eye" flailing subjectivity to allow the rationalist beholder to see variants conjoined to reconfigure the nomenclature when directed at an italicized inscription, such as "ugly." The term, dumb, dressed in a shut up fashion composite, teases to intrude a "so dumb" initiative, a formed inquisitorial test, a discontinuance to utter what was not imparted. "So dumb" does not dance with "dumb," but it is pitched to its own privatized remembrance: cozy sweetness, affection holding glee; unabated, rampant silly cuteness; flipped by, held by, "so." Dumb is enervated by dumb, an inconsolably mono-syllabic discontinuance, a sediment self-abandoned, never encrusted. This paradoxical sheathed redeemer, enabler to autonomy has a horrific rhetoric, now uninjurable, but scaled, threaded and postured with disgust, a shroud, a turncoat, the past’s symbiosis founded by fatigue, partially enhanced by the partner’s self-restorative powers that any relation disarray was an inconvenience, a nonessential detour from an embrace.

Guilt flanks the initiator’s liberated result, and not due to the recipient’s impaling, or lack of. The deliverance is ingrained with conjured affiliated passed up "not yet (s)," brimming acute infiltrations; an over painted wonder, loaded incursions — a badly mapped waste. A sequential bewilderment – post utterance, tragically redundant – still rests in a permeative residing "delay" to spit the term, to let loose the viscosity, to stop the occurred time loss, to find elsewhere kisses that prompt exposition.

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FAMILY

The term "family" has a hard-hitting humor in a rock grasp, a based continuance even when inflammatory scrambled disintegration immolates the last joke, a peculiar melodic forecast collaborating with itself collectively regardless of empirical anything, infection or its metaphors. It is an inverted one word pronouncement that has a push and shove registered in a Sunday blueberry pancake overflow. One cannot read the word, for it rests in its own lexicon. It is a procreative force, not the child stuff making, but a no drip hope flavored popsicle mandate. It licks engenderers via an ephemeral tease, a quantitative speculation reflex that paradoxically only welcomes unknowingly the inconclusive smile. It is a dialectical transgression in an encased scrambled ambition, a rearranged continuance, an anti-admonition management gambit that grants un-collaborated acknowledgement. It is a rampant cuteness framed in a "blood is thicker than water" viscous self-assessed cognitive advancement whose expositional level refutes metric and Roman digital singularity for an amnesiac shaped report, indefatigably there.

An unexplainable, tragic, obligatory guilt crosses men and women, equally so, when addressing a referenced family connected concern, personally associated with or not, an irrationally formed imbedded evaluative plane, this peculiar focus, reckless, always engaged, a self-important disregard to matter, designed to block the inconvertible traverse of any annihilatory allusions to hope’s dispersion. Nothing need be indicative of anything, and yet an emblematized suggestion pushes at will not to see the bewilderment.

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PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE

The gender neutral cheap shot – "passive-aggressive" – formed in an unmitigated anticipatory moral summation, preciously long ago suggested, a grab bag prophecy characteristically used when curtained and stymied while aspiring to hold a retort jab, attention positioned, usually succeeding, for ascribed pathologies, rendered by anyone, gratuitously or not, cut by the inherent demand to justify the disabused brazen negation. It sticks and smells deep, and the term proceeds to present via a formed dysadaptation a veiled and reticent light on a profile, an exhausted pertinacious blanketing never measured.

The eventual bumptious connection a couple will have as ripostes’ frequency diminishes, assuming wit was ever there, explains the accusatory prolificness when one of the two – most unusual when the same proffered psychiatric taint is echoed by the other – necessitous to counter verbal loss, pushes and twists an anomalously hoarded term into an incipient pseudo-legitimacy, which holds in a coined doublespeak, a licensed slipshod truth. The bundled importunity to inflect an already designated immobilized sensibility via the passive-aggressive applied appellation, a mirrored variant of got-me-get-you is actually a diffused converse so frustrated and stagnant in the want to structure a hold.

The parties prescribe an approach, a tactic, a strategy swap and the scenario precipitator of it all is not findable as the indifference, the taciturn trajectory coupled with a knock/knock "I am not here," lies in a "you say, I say" testimony never articulated. The passive-aggressive accusatory harangue is a thirst to do. To use two connotatively pejorative words and sandwich them by the unsustainable is to address what is missing and, thereby, to create an equation that provides orientation.

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BETRAYAL

While a lover states distinctly, and such is the mode, that a sexual transgression occurred, correctly assumed or not, the articulated closure submits unknowingly to the unbridled conjuncture and, consequently, the righteous balm falls splotched, proffered diffusely. The commonplace subjectivity quarrels with its consequent particulars. It implants dullness within the mere "cheat" and "infidelity" horrors conceived to occupy the burn that reiterates. A lover betrayed carries an assemblage committed to scatter the roughly hastened. The formalism, an unsuitable subversion, boxed in rectitude, denies, and then draws an already dejected cause and effect to an illegitimate standpoint. Mirth is a referent not even dabbled in by this occluding force, but in the accusatory brood, a proximate hole of the pervasive juvenility permits a possible comment: "No betrayal here. I did it. I wanted to."

And yet, dismissed or not, the adage "true to self serves self well" should demystify fidelity’s pedestal. Betrayal would be caged and flogged so airless, if guilt did not chatter a continuously credible syntax. It is always a sexual metropolis, and the betrayal, gender, of course, neutralized, implies that murmurs cohabit exposition. Intellectual empathetic ambitions tattered never are instructed to embrace the term. Other forms of betrayal as in "betrayal of trust," "betrayal of the family’s legacy" are qualified forms of the term, interventions, dilutions upon the scrawny, isolated, arguably most heinous accusation; the referent, deemed the affliction, rests as a forgery, the means to import a parasitical detour from what is evident: your heat is a melody that dental offices and elevators have programmed therein. What is heard could numb, pillage, or hang loose – it does not matter; but, the word is an oppression that betrays language.

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MONEY

Money needs to shut up around love. Love needs its moans so when money does shout, and it will, love’s maimed turn will dodge for moments more until that reticent spillage, that static push to end love’s unexamined glee rests to note, "I am not here." No love can withstand the efficiency of this contrarian form, money rerouted, an anomaly – no variants to this laden emptiness. Love’s magnificent ordinariness: hands in circumstances, the eyes, the temples, the neck, the jutting collarbones, the thighs so seated, all die by money’s lack. "I kiss you," he said, "but I taste the money trouble on your teeth." "Your lips are gone, gummed in a monetary mendacity targeted by what is not there," she replied.

In bed, money performance monitors limpid distractions. A contained heat is dependently boxed dry. Discursive reform will not do. Volatility makes no change. Hope is a dysfunctional pimp job. Money left town, and recriminations are represented in a nickel dividend.

However, to marry for money, to alleviate the choleric counted cash metallic humbling, has approbations in complicated dismissals to the temptation’s blatancy, but a sinuous serviceability to dissent pushes the trudging sniggers, inexpiably immersed, to witness matrimonial delectation, an interminably weighted residuum, an acquiescence even purported to be perversely malleable, yet hunkered in a mournful need that slams insistence.

"The determinants, discounted or not," she noted, "run the multiples against your legs, while my cheek to your lips yields to unexploited, systemic appellations, serially issued to protect the dear love, seasoned and marked, an offering whose variety stipulates to withdraw."

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KISS

The initial kiss need be the stalwart to the next one, and if it does not have the requisite properties, thereby, self-maligned, it can at best linger in a mesh of embodied contagion, a self-evident postulate, not needing substantiation anyway, a concatenation, antecedently validating that tolerance does not rest on a bad kisser and that the inexorable three strike policy is never implemented here, nor should be, for never applicable, unless the kiss recipient is kiss-blind, tied in a precedence of squandered misfortune, and cut marketability: and then all may concede to the lexicon’s rewriting, as in "kindness," all its variations, its supposedly credible substitutive powers, calibration necessarily barred, or as in the term, "first date generosity," its capacity to reign over lip, tongue, saliva languor. Even "boorish behavior" caste in well-meaning decorum, pushed to altruism can be pegged to fit where kiss should rest: kiss self-foolery is a one-celled infringement with variables un-noted, but they should be chartered, for this is important stuff.

Kissing of the sort so referred to must be wet and desert mirages do not suffice to quench the need for converged lips with peeking tongues, but the temple receiving an impeccably placed, even parched kiss with no motive other than an unconscious need to show the love upon the face is the terminant to any devotional doubt.

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SPOONING

No one spoons in a swing club.

"Honey let’s spoon" is never articulated, anywhere, and no one has ever stated while in the spoon(ing) formation, "Honey, we are spooning, baby," and not because this assembled body duo is so busy with life lust – of course, a clattered moan/groan presence is expected to knock-knock on the spoon field – but when it does, the spooning has ceased, or is about to, and consequently must be renamed: as in, for instance, "Let’s get it on," a flatware designed to undergird the manifest affection, the warmth that spooning lyrically holds, is, unchallenged as the accountable catalyst, this sustained horniness evoked and determined by precedent, a cause and effect counter to expectation that parallels and positions a dormancy that compliments the tenderness, an emblematic appreciation with understood welcomed currents that, at times, bangs that position, spooning, afield to a "do it again" prevalence.

Spooned sweetness can get rancid, if one heeds it as a tease gone sour – and that reading swaggers a legit functionality by either gender – and all that melodic parlance, even if rested on a mound of sex past, disperses a perceived aridity to get out from this dithering dip hug stuff, bluntly stacked, at times, to crazily batter smoke to resonate stall, an irremediable ruin etched in an instrumentality fitted well to a mobility endorsed in and by heat.

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JEALOUSY

Jealousy is in accord with jealousy, a grammatical coexistence in a parenthetical completion collectively emblematized to spin, shove, litter with engagement repeatedly. It is an assumption founded on "it does not matter," varied in a "whatever" installment, formed to an inquiry, imperially prolonged. It has its particulars in a complete viewpoint concomitantly concurred to forthcoming quarrels. The recipient of it all, stamped by dreamed capriciousness, attributions or reordered reprints marshaled, those evidenced depositions, expels circumstance to a tolerated repair or not.

Jealousy is noisy, banging its worth, validating a quiet solicitation, evoked, skirted. It holds an expressed concern that a new fucker is a knocking, or there now, but even a perversely recognized table rapping, that metaphysical forced acknowledgment, a recycled cognitive anomaly, is no impetus to reconfigure interest in "Honey, I want you now" — gender open. The jealousy, any form, is sexless: the he/she disperses a blocked sex want to "Where is she/he and what is happening and what is thought?" Jealousy has dry needs and is basically clean cut, even when horrific, for it begins as a denouement, an authorial alignment, simple fiction, no climax, narratively a one word book, bolted by love, confirmed by "deep love."

When the flip reverie – assert your love to me, my love – is the norm’s instrumentality and frames its discontinuous elements to the everyday life stuff, similarly clean, in fact elliptically immaculate to an end with no climactic version, varied or not, the recipient’s lucidity sees an attended want that maintains more want, that needling recognized, literal or metaphorical, that lack of care.

Jealousy owns inspired alliances to self with rhetoric sustained and garnered felicitously, an impassable intervention, and when consequent inexcusable acts are wedded by hieratic apperceptions, the framework incarnates a systematic happiness and, therefore, there is no reason for it to cease.

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RING

The wedding/engagement ring tease in fortified jab move is an ever present deal. It is a loaded magnet field that plays only hold and tell, and watch your face—gender indifferent to the punch. The ring stands with or without a welded love as there are no speculative components to the totality, nothing transcendental even though the strong credible possibility that love’s imperative presence, infinite and all that, might rest tightened to the digit with recursive family social/money desiderata, but that is a banal side issue. What positions it all is the mine is mine triumph even if indifference is the rejoinder to emendations’ evident oppositions. A structured confusion is permissible, an interplay to its own popularity embodied in the maneuvered ring integration: love regardless loves mine is mine, no repudiation to the subscribed love sequence, a miscellany that curiously has no offstage wonder as its verisimilitude constitutes an indirect, "no kidding."

Ring disparities form a utopian discourse, the consummate elaborated difference brought to ground via love’s main floor entrance. Smile. You entered a spanned permutation that does not but serve its misreading, and happiness is the strategy. No ring on her finger says, "Where is he?" or he ringless poses the dialectical, "What is his constraint?" Charming survival stuff that has a temporal value, but so important, even when dissimulated. But, expense delimits the obverse of no interest and yet all know that is mythical, spawned by a legitimist not doing too well, but who keeps the substantive hold.

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INFATUATION

Infatuation, snuggly laced in Cinderella’s slippers, sprints down the block, a pre-midnight run to time’s nasty hold: get thee home to normalcy where a kiss is no more than a kiss and a dry limpid duo is a breakfast expectation. Infatuation has appraisal dislocated in bliss dust. Infatuation is a state that is dissimilar to itself; it holds a non-recognition clause that sees no portentous anything: it is fashioned in one. No euphemisms. No insertions. Blind, deaf, and dumb. There is no reciprocity to be weighted. It is reticent in a mixed loop that befogs its timed jog.

Outsiders’ condemnatory castings – the degree of the tragically depraved infatuated individual’s condition, so blindly wrought in a paradoxical prelapsarian lust to innocence, further twisted in needing cum’s assumed eventuality, but never pushed to front-line material – are wrapped by providential command procedure that assist to misevaluate, or not, a commonplace analyticity formed in a self-serving visional credulity to hide the envy, the pure unacknowledged want to be similarly bolted.

This no-budge-love perverts reciprocity’s lexical mandate: the thrower never catches. The recipient, usually attired in a gloved disgust, has a distributional empirical span to not consider dodging, an indifference to a sketch without contours or gender regard, but the embedded, mapped, vaulted, incomparable felicity most never have, the infatuation, even when dropped, and it does, always, so forced to a parochial stay, a despondence, the there and here, the blur, is worth it.

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ADORATION

Adoration does not come in a diluted form; it is unequivocal, not articulated, but witnessed or felt or given, and has its own respiratory system that both male and female sip equally from. Love pales to it as it, love, has been known to have an insidious component, an inner box, that, at times, falls under the rubric of "fake-love," but adoration is hard and solid and slight of hand drops as a possibility. It creates silence in others, and those with no sensitivity learn quickly to see it and shut up, even if they can never offer it. Adoration always holds love.

Adoration is tricky stuff in this romantic context, however, in that one can adore, and at that moment have a folksy sensuality to the recipient, an encumbered, even dormant lust due to adoration’s determinative sweep, an actuality contiguous to itself, only seemingly paradoxical, for once stamped there is nothing to abet upon, other than an innuendo that this is an emboitement positioned to implode as an encased predatory inflammation.

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INTIMACY

Intimacy and impropriety, a grisly contrasted connection that conjoins in a stretched variation of what is not: the latter is not a word, but has the weak structure to connect to the term, improper, as intimacy, when articulated, at best, coats a feeble, previously acknowledged or not, dismantled relationship, for it sings the no-tune song, "Where has my sex stuff gone?" here crassly stated, perhaps, to balance the plighted attachment to garnish, a substitute that will not do.

It is a word with no development; it measures abruptly obsolescence, so indoctrinated to an inequality to distinguish what is missing after the discrete accounting, a susceptible intervention to collide the discourse with its rhetoric. It bestows a dialectal wondering to the recipient of it all in its dispossession from a standard reference control, the antecedents, those exemplified impediments, plural in their solitary force: a hyphenated distinction missing the left and right while beseeching complaint, entrenched atop its configuration.

An indicative generic sloppiness coordinates either gender’s constituent imperial exclusivity to its demand, its clichéd passive, veiled aggression, its flipped variant, a soft longing edged in bewilderment. This remnant of not, with its sex-sound appeal, deceptive and smooth is a misalliance to promise.

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LOVE

Love claps to its own passion and if the decibels are mute, friendship rings at best, a ding-a-ling no tune dance restituted in an inner beauty gastric excess, lexical misplaced prowess: well groomed, coffered kidneys move erotically to the dry, limp stuff, always. Goodness is not fuckable, but goodness must be in the vicinity or on the spot, as must be intelligence and all the other no kidding constituents. Both genders grovel to a minute-maid approach to wet up friendship’s mirage sheltering job doings. The adage runs its course down every dune: no wet tingle, no love, but the empathetic concentrate, the buddy-best-friend-spouse declaration waters the cum tingle mandate to a good-bye that will shortly run its road.

Tingle to the cum and friendship then is addressed. Of course, "I love you." steers around a divided motive, one of which is reciprocity so expected, entertaining love in a jellied appeasement, or its flip, "Don’t you love me?" bounces to an attention deficit lapse, but passion is passion and wanting it is love’s floor. The actuality is embraced and discarded by all: getting with the kitty litter jigsaw’s animal drawl to alphabetize love’s letters.

Love spells more, or for the illiterate: do it again.

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CUDDLE

Cuddle is a term that colonizes the native culture of fuck. It demands unconscious apologetic stances to renounce natural inclinations. It is not foreplay, not even a detour to get to the get to. It is designed to form a test, and the willingness to engage determines the score. Cuddling is not holding your lover, snuggling with her/him, but a redirection of intent away from thrust and lick to one of supposed manifest sensitivity, feeling, caring to support a non-orgasmic directed state of being, a hierarchical positioning sanctioning real love via a rejection of cum commencements. It perverts the clearly mandated positive components of touch and warmth. Caressing could be a preamble to moisture. Cuddling—which follows similar movement, holding patterns–is designed to dry. And in its arid warmth, it grows guilt. It has ingrained a prescribed time that is paradoxically open, a petri dish ready for an outcome that dissuades scrutiny, and when the cuddle is in process, the cuddle initiator will be the sole marker of its end. In its arid warmth, it constructs within both participants an indeterminable guilt, a spore fed by an un-willing submission to provide a love substance lie, reiteration that the woman’s other components, the non-corporeal ones, are what principally keep the tie. The action smells of insecurity and positions usually women, not that men do not welcome such as well as a means to forestall the necessitated erection presence, as conditioned valuators to access what is not the issue.

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COMMITMENT

Commitment in regard to a relationship is almost always posed in the negative, as in fear of commitment, as in why can not you commit if you love me. The person not committing is deemed to have a flaw not ingrained in the context of the two involved, a supposed actuality not to be specified that allows remedy or not, a degree of unacknowledged irrationality. The refusal to commit is based and understood by the commitment requester, not on his or her merits or lack of, and, therefore, the relationship’s reality is avoided. The individual not abiding by the other’s wishes always could state reasons for the refusal, or just regard the want as an infringing banality. However, an assumed, never articulated moral hierarchy is declared, and the cause of it all, that which prevents the jointed union, is recast as a refrain shortly after its first announcement. Submission becomes the focus; castigation becomes the means; grand issue avoidance is the general frame, for paradoxically, love on both sides could still be; passion need not have diminished. The reality becomes extraterritorial and the nagger intrinsically knows that the procedure will end it all. This self-destructive continuum has a pervasive curiosity in that commitment is not used as a euphemism for marriage, not that marriage need not come up. Commitment’s nebulous components preclude exactitude; marriage in its legal and societal outlines is finite, at least on paper. Commitment as request is a staged unwritten script for an approaching curtain call.

Sexism: women as the commitment pusher, the irrationally so designated gender, a concomitant parallelism nevertheless, a credence builder to their commitment calling.

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FEELINGS

Female or male twitches in relationship anxiety enable the standby reference, feelings, to counter wobbly love connections. Love tilt generates the not sustainable proffering, whether they are the feelings as declared, "I need you to know the extent of my feelings for you," or the expressed anguish as to where they hide, "You never show me your feelings." Feelings are a grouped enterprise, whose wrenching vigor is enforced en masse, congealed in an emotionally sealed state to prevent further viewing. One feeling would not work. The assumption is that women request the periodic feelings statements from their men when love doubt festers, and men at opportune times, never in conjunction to women’s solicitation, articulate them when vulnerable, complimented with a sincere credible countenance, clouded to paste a hold upon their assumed terrain. This designated gender distinction provides via its specific polarity’s presence a precedent of discernible distinction. The strained duality, never plausible, has at least a detail, its gender specific enactment predictability–a means to further that missing exposition.

The statements by both genders seem loaded in intent, cozy in care, yet meshed in a grunted earnestness to encapsulate the unarticulated malaise to self and other. It is a one-word proclamation, in a one-step program, not even differentiated by gender strategy, as a pseudo continuance of an on-the-edge try for feeling sound, positive, wholesome, developmental, but lacquered in dismissal. The question digs: why the man did not note that "he loves her," or the woman did not state her hurt in "a lack of attention." The absence mirrors its intent.

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DUMPED

Getting dumped as in "You are dumped" by one’s intimate partner, and no one else could be applicable, sets forth a peculiar reactive state: despair, certainly; realization of mandated departure, a credible possibility; and in many instances, an immediate contextual break from the initial reactions, a fake out, a detour, a mitigation via a change of focus to the word so selected, dumped, disbelief, to a degree manifest in an incongruous smile, that one actually employs the word to present the closure of it all: no more Sunday mornings waking up in romantic splendor.

The terminator dangles dumped, not "get out," a leeway within finality in the former loved one’s ongoing pervasive sodden adrenal spill, and in such provides tangential holds, but strong enough to tease remembrance’s connective muscle, grasps that can be deemed masochistically attractive—our former lives together—to warrant dumped misread as "She kids me. Maybe." The articulated plosives further spray a lettered ridiculousness: dump pops in fun style. How could she not use it? Dump. Dump. Dump.

Dumped poses questions, not questions as to why the au revoir, but why the word selection and that in turn makes the finality less unequivocal. The get-out of-here encapsulation, dumped, has within it an academic forwarding that language and relationships have a perpetual embrace. In fact, dump’s protective attire holds a semi-scholarly future endeavor in word usage research, the lexicon’s multitasking elements: it protects the articulator, usually the female who would consider or use the term, from male possible breakouts of maleness anger as he scratches looking for exactitude.

Dumped is, also, used, much more frequently, when it is not activated, when it is used in conversation with friends, male or female, in reference to other words that were actually employed to make him depart. The move is from the germane to a meta-recounting via movie romance breakup recognition and generated laughter, a make believe ballroom number, appellation’s absurdity, the whole absurd deal in a retelling of what did not happen.

© 2021 Alan Nadler