Pussipo Manifesto

The bombs of empire are hived into my charred cinderella.

My cinderella is cathected onto a larval mass & icing drips into the mouth of Sir Squeals-a-lot, the piggie who fingers the levers of letters to his own advantage.

Milk pours out of the presses into the eager jaws of Sir Squeals-a-lot, and someone filters out the stringy ovaries lest they stick in his false teeth.

Let us examine the origins of our radical disease.

Pussipo says, A press is a cunt is a squeezebox full of letters. A hairy valentine, we eat social code and spit up a library.

Pussipo says, Convene in language attired in this century’s most stylish uterus. Let your mod ovaries dangle out of your eye-sockets to their fullest advantage.

Pussipo says, A poem is not a synecdoche for a pap smear. Or a cunt-riddled plush toy with an animatronic chatterbox.

Pusssipo says, Mind your falsies.

Look hard at the female of the species, at their cannibal wigs and zirconia-trimmed muzzleloaders, their coyless page of slits. You will now be page to their slits, a bag of meat with wings.

To the monkey in the pot de crème, welcome.

Press any tender button to continue.