skonen_blades

You flower all over me
Rustically hurling petals
A million soft tongues
Licking gravity away
Memory luxuriates in oblivion
Vacationing by abstaining
And now, now, now slams softly
Into every corner of me
And all I’m capable of experiencing
Is what’s happening
Existing purely as a sensory unit
Without the capability to record
And I wonder what animals remember
And I think forgiveness exists in nature
More than anywhere else
I am aloft
Adrift in time’s current
Gliding by being
I pillow home base
As round-trip tickets pile up in the basement
I am the ghost of an arrow
The daydream of a javelin
A missile of silence
Rock still in my quivering

And this is just
When you look at me

tags

A man once came from a small, local town
Nantucket was the name of this township
And he was known (and cause) for much renown
Because of the appendage at his hip
A trouser snake of such impressive size
That all who claimed to see it were amazed
That when erect it came up past his eyes
Although the loss of blood would leave him dazed
It’s said he could fellate himself with ease
And if his ear were but a bearded clam
He’d turn his head and twice himself he’d please
He heard and thought “Is this all that I am?”
For eloquence had he when e’er he spoke
It hurt to be the punchline to a joke

For Todd McManus was the fellow’s name
Although no note in history would show
It hurts to have a certain kind of fame
To be the butt of famous jokes and know
He founded towns and authored novels well
Amended laws and raised nine children too
He built an orphanage where waifs could dwell
And yet his accolades were numbered few
All because by accident of birth
His member was what was so recognized
It’s frankly freakish awkward length and girth
At times he cursed a penis thusly sized
He was not a simple limerick
He was so much more than just his dick

He could have toured with PT Barnum if
The offered contract from him he had signed
He could have seen the world being stiff
But offers like this one he all declined
If fame he craved, he wished it came from him
From lives he changed for better with his mind
But history’s cruel pen, with twisted whim
Determined that to him, ‘twould be unkind
So Todd became the dirty, catchy poem
That now each grade-school giggler recites
Though such debasing insults were below him
It ruined his days and gave him sleepless nights
So think of Todd McManus on this day
And think of different limericks to say

tags

It’s the unexpected curve of you
The surprising arch that bridges me away from reality
The world around us disappears and you enter
And all I can see now is you
You have become the momentary focus of my world
My vision is swamped with you
My brain is soaked with what I’m seeing
It’s a flood of you in my mind
Washing everything else away
Drowning inhibitions
Rinsing worries down the drain
Putting out the fires in my forest
You are the kind of storm I like
The kind that brings the present into sharp relief
You conglomerate all my trains of thought
Into one steam-driven engine
The rise and fall of you
The winding snake of you
The leg and rib of you
Every bone is a ladder for my eyes
And I climb

tags

It’s that window to your heart
The electric crush of you
The pushing together, the lifting of shirts
The red hunger forming mouths and hands
Turning senses into tuning forks
Bringing the animal to the surface

Boil away our strength
Ablate our resistance
Try to withstand the glowing trail of a meteor’s path through the atmosphere
Let friction be our guiding light
The falling star we wish on
Let’s be as brief as living beings are
And as alive. And as motion. And as heat.
Let the jungle auto-pilot us
Become musicians improvising
The oldest way to celebrate life

It’s the splitting path of you
The sweetened clefts
The oiled press
Directions written all over you
In a language I’m trying to understand
With braille and explosions
A shoulder raised
A hand groping for balance
I see almost nothing of you and then
The barest sliver of flesh
And I jump off a cliff
Shivering all the way to the bottom of you
Using you to use me

No locks to pick
Just heat to give
In a finish line
That feels like just the beginning

tags

Life’s no boneless penguin
And I’m no spit wizard
While I’m heard it said that taxidermy is the shortest way to immortality
I think it only takes two fingers to unlock a door
I’m common-law married to most of my pants
If hypocrites didn’t give advice, there’d be no hypocrites
So listen up
I have two handfuls of the sound a tuba makes
And a mouthful of peanut-butter battleaxes
My fist fight expertise is more like applause against my own face
And my sneakiness is a horse race down a wooden flight of stairs
All I’m sayin’ is that
Sure, I’ve smuggled a few piers inside my hip waders
Sure, I’ve shoplifted neckerchiefs from the future
Sure,I’ve done laps around a swimming pool in the dark
Heck, once I even taught a didgeridoo to command a starship by laughing in morse code
So I can say with no word of a lie
Ascension is a game that ladders make you play
Guns are just compressed chessboards
Acoustically, we’re not very sound
And my heart is a red light bulb looking for moths
Like a butcher-shop lighthouse
A sex-district warning beacon nowhere near the water
Time travelers come back in time to look at me, shake their head, and go back home
I’m half gas mask and half gumboot
I’m a target wearing an invisibility cloak
I can sweep the ice with the best of them
But when it comes to fireworks,
I can only hum the tune

tags

It’s been recently discovered that the sperm swim widly, blindly, stupidly, randomly wriggling.
More or less directionless.
Heads thrashing back and forth more than their tails.
A panicking crowd that doesn’t flock.
They are caught by the sticky surface of the egg.
They don’t seek out the egg.
They are trapped by the egg.
Then, while thrashing wildly, they are absorbed.
Once inside they realign and there is another gate.
The egg is in charge of opening it.
The egg is not docile, waiting for the best and strongest to smash through its defenses.
It is not a victim.
It is not passive.
It is a participant.
Like all good sex.
The sperm is not a heat-seeking ICBM on a soldier’s mission, carrying a payload to a target.
It doesn’t burrow its way through defenses.
It does not drill and thrash through walls built to withstand them.
It is not an aggressor
It is not attacking
It is not autonomous.
It is indiscriminately flailing.
Perhaps in need of rescue.
For though the union annihilates both by mixing them.
The rest die.
The eggs one by one off of eve’s pirate ship plank.
The sperm in their millions (millions!) every time, successful or not.
Their life blooms and exponentially dances outward
In handshakes and spirals, fingerprints and motion
But genesis is mutual, not forced.
The new study states "the egg is not merely a large, yolk-filled sphere into which the sperm burrows to endow new life. Rather, recent research suggests the almost heretical view that sperm and egg are mutually active partners."
This is consent on a microscopic scale.
This redefines the metaphor.
The lies we were all told.
About men and women.

tags

Our racism was strange to them and their racism was strange to us.

The Quenari only saw in the radio, microwave, and infra-red waves. They had huge bulbous eye apparatus on tops of their head stalks in amongst orange tufts of muppet hair. They had three legs that spread like a tripod and ended in hand-like, eight-toed feet. Three tentacles spread equidistantly around their body stalks and drooped semi-rigid like tails when they weren’t in use. The most alien race we’d encountered so far and the most ridiculous looking.

But aside from the orange tufts of hair, they were all blue. The exact same shade of earth-sky blue.

Under their skin, they had naturally occuring radio transmitters, heat sinks, and microwave generators. To the Quenari there were seven variations of these emitters that made them as different to each other and a Rembrandt was to a Pollock. These skin patterns were invisible to us. The Quenari remained a pallid, uniform blue to our eyes.

And to them, we were all the same boring patches of black, blue, and red that our body heat produced naturally, with no radio or microwaves to speak of. Our translator pendants made us all sound similar so they didn’t notice accents or languages, either.

Their sexual activity was a long five-stage egg donor, carrier, fertilizer, mitosis generator and harvester affair that held no parallel on earth. Again, it was the subdermal beacons that spelled out who was who in that regard. Very social beings and large family units as a result. Our rather quick and internalized procreation was odd to them but our choice of partner was of no consequence. They could barely tell the men, women and genderfluid people from each other and never thought to ask in any case, sensing social awkwardness. Sexual orientation and gender held no meaning for them when it came to us and we were hopelessly lost in the same way looking at them.

Appearance wise, we were mostly homogenous to them and they were mostly homogenous to us.

It changed us. News of them spread and they infested our consciousness like Dr Seuss creatures. Indeed, several children’s books about them were published and were popular.

Instead of calling each other racist or sexist, we started calling each other Quenarish. Or Blue. The ridiculousness of it all altered our society in profound and lasting ways. Subtly at first but more and more, like an unspoken agreement around the planet, we measured each other on the basis of tenacity, knowledge, and strength of character rather than gender or race. As a people, we saw the Quenari as ridiculous and petty and beneath us.

Maybe we substituted one form of racism for another but it helped us.

tags

I believe that you are not your gender. You are not your race. You are not your occupation. You are not the country you were born in. You are not the language you speak. You are not even your name.

I believe that you are also more than the electrical impulses that give you your thoughts and move your limbs. You are more than a being that can interact with this world physically. You are more than the animals, for better or for worse.

Who are you? Who are we? WHAT are we? When you try to answer this, you see the need for a purpose.

Maybe we’re just here to quest. We are here not just to struggle, but to strive toward. The fact that what we strive towards is unknowable is the reason we strive. The search is the end. The constant movement is the destination. It’s a contradiction that fits.

Art, science, and religion are all trying to explain the same thing.

All questions lead to more questions. That is as much a function of the universe as it is a function of our own perspective. We have not found out how large the universe is and we have not found its smallest particle. The ladder is endless up and down and the road is endless in all directions as far as we’re concerned. Both ends of the telescope do nothing but expand our base of queries.

Imagination bridges gaps. Stories gives us answers. Myths teach us and give us reasons. A person with answers seems powerful because answers calm us. Without satisfactory answers, we turn faster and faster. We become smarter and try to dampen the curiousity with more knowledge. We turn to art to abstract the pull of wanting to know. We memorize religious books and tell ourselves that strength lies in belief, damming up the need for facts, facts, more facts.

The yawning abyss is exactly this.

What calms the journey is direction. Your journey may take you to the stars, to the intricacies of language, to atoms, to your own inner workings, to the physical and metaphysical. It may take you to places on maps either real or imagined. The quest for peace has so many paths.

This holy grail of balance is what comes in and out of focus for us. What gets us out of bed in the morning is not only our awareness of time passing, our bodies decaying. It is the question. As innate as eye colour. It is bred into us and seemingly, only us.

It is why our life form is insane. It is our greatest strength and our greatest flaw. With no curiousity, we would be at peace. This is why we are damned. This is why we are holy.

They say that getting there is half the fun. Since getting there is all we do, then that is why we feel we are missing out on half of something.

tags

April 30/30

23/30

Gingers have a rhubarb patch
Brunettes have a thicket.
Blondes possess a flaxen thatch
So guys know where to stick it.

Brunettes have a licorice ruff
Blondes a golden ticket
Gingers have a copper tuft
So girls know where to lick it

Blondes display a honey crest
Gingers red wine wicket
Brunettes sport a charcoal tress
So everyone can flick it

tags

April 30/30

21/30

Once the tangle of sex as an ultimate state is no longer the stamp that fuels your propellers, an entire system of planets open up, new worlds and relationship no longer defined by shades of procreative drives. Friendships untainted by the push and pull of attraction. It’s all a matter of degrees, of course.

I think it was Plato who walked into a summer market at the age of 80, fresh youths on all sides buying food, and he felt nothing for them. Rumps, boobs, abs, legs, eyes, none of it worked on him anymore. He was sexless. Legend has it that he fell to his knees and said “I’m free! I’m free!”

For some this happens earlier. For some, it’s a lifelong state. To know, like, befriend, and/or conversely, to hate, despise and dislike people for reasons that have nothing to do with the attractiveness of their appearance is a strange experience.

One I welcome.

tags

April 30/30

8/30

Lie no longer, sly young man. Each silk caress that carries you home to bed will be a wish that is fulfilled with tiny hands, enthusiasm, and no guilt. I’ve got your underarm worries packed safely into this cotton kit of first-aid brush strokes. Your enamel will strengthen, your veins will widen, and every stroke of cold genius that haunts your mind’s underbelly will be a hallway of light for your allies to reach out for you. You are about to not only go on a vacation, you are about to straight-up BECOME a vacation.

Your fingerprints are in the flan. The food that tempted your heart becomes crumbs at your touch. Each kind-hearted knife thrust cutting up red peppers to feed hole-hearted families of hippo-handed hard-ons was an indigo mirage, thrust up for the benefit of sailors and mermaids lost in the desert. If your expiry date hangs limply in wet rags, if your half-snail shell game of a life is at the flattening point, if your tire pump has become a dust-ridden topaz horse chandelier, then look at what your hands have done to soft surfaces. You can kid yourself that you’ve made no difference here but that’s not the case.

The sheriff’s wife awaits you. In the hot kitchen of summer. The man who enforces the law with good sense and a gun is at work all day and all she does is bake pies in short dresses, wipe sweaty locks of hair off of her amazing forehead, and guzzle lemonade until you show up to take her mind off of the sun-baked forgetful lizard’s eye of a town. She’ll wear his boots and you’ll get better at leaving your self-control at the doorway to her bedroom. It’s not as though you invented rope tricks. It’s just that sitting up straight gets harder to do every day and this, while stupid and carrying a fuse, is lively in a way that hasn’t been wrong since humans first settled townships.

And you’re not even a mailman.

tags

It was that time again. Time for the aliens to mate. I was the first human allowed to watch.

The Kurisk were a unique race. Their minds had raced forth early on while their bodies remained on the bottom rungs of the evolutionary ladder. The Kurisk had become adept at building and smelting and extrapolating when most races were figuring out how to walk upright and club each other.

They enhanced their primitive appendages with wooden and then clay prosthetics, enabling them to make more complex tools, enabling them to make more complex machinery. They built carapaces for themselves out of metal. They built heaters for themselves inside those carapaces to enable exploration of the polar regions. Then they built self-contained breathing apparatus for trips below the water. They built communication arrays inside their increasingly armoured husks.

After that, they added wings and flocked to the sky. After that, gunpowder and kinetic weapons to protect themselves from skyborne predators. After that, they added rockets and escaped their planet’s gravity.

When food became a problem, they managed to make adjustments to themselves to live off of solar and gravitational power while in space and geothermal power while on planets without nutrients. One of them flew near a gas giant and transmitted a blueprint to all his fellow Kurisk about an idea for improvements to survive such an atmosphere. The discovery of lasers was an evolutionary leap.

Every new set of planetary circumstances they came in contact with caused them to race back home and add a new layer to their shells. They were quick learners.

No one knew what their original forms looked like. They were permanently sealed in their massive shells.

Masters of language translators and pleasant to talk to, the Kurisk were curious and inquisitive. A good thing, too. If they’d been warlike, they would have been formidable. They held patents on most of the technology in the universe. They hadn’t yet mastered Faster Than Light or Transport Technology but it was only a matter of time.

In some places, they were referred to simply as The Improvers.

While each Kurisk varied a tiny bit, they tried to remain identical and to keep all of their improvements up to date across their entire race. This made it impossible to tell them apart. Only the Kurisk themselves could do that.

Every six years, they needed to return home to mate. This was the only time they came out of their shells. As a Universal Geographic reporter, they let me visit their world to witness and record what no other race had seen. They saw my own human curiousity mirrored in theirs.

I was about to see a naked Kurisk.

A Kurisk with the designation Arentally, my friend who gotten me this job, was interested in a Kurisk named Mortenoj. Mortenoj was fertile and Arentally was ready. With an agreement passed between their arrays, they started to undress.

It took an entire day. Pressurized suits were collapsed slowly. Eggshell-thin casings were retracted. Reactors were powered down. Connections were waterfall-triggered to regress and bodypit faceplates were folded under and away. Hoses were detached. Complicated suture arrangements and biomechanical virus defenders were temporarily dissolved.

And there, at the center of the enormous, open, bloomed flower of intricate machinery, sat my friend, Arentally. He flopped forward onto the ground with a grunt. Sort of a cross between a vivid green slug and an blue octopus. Utterly disgusting. He couldn’t speak to me or see me without his equipment. He waved a weak tentacle and slithered towards the smell of his mate.

Mortenoj was also out of her shell. The two of them clumsily found each other, sliding across the ground, and entwined. It was very messy and noisy.

I filmed the whole thing with a frown on my face and tried to remain professional.

tags

Kirk’s big dick was three feet long
As thick as baseball bats
Though James T Kirk boned everything
His Jimmy wore no hats
STD’s from outer space
Now rock the cock of Kirk
Females fell in hapless hordes
Towards that charming smirk
6 and thirty inches long
Each inch of cock diseased
His member’s mostly mortified
From all the ones he’s pleased
Those green sores are hot to touch
And blink like spider eyes
And over here a patch of blue
That daily grows in size
Herpes from Orion girls
Form some emerald scabs
Over there the skittering
Of slightly psychic crabs
The end of Kirk’s huge member has
A constant, stinging dribble
The dude had sex with everything
He even fucked a tribble
He’s gotten cures for what he can
From Federation bases
Shots and pills and hypo sprays
For all the separate cases
But most of the infections here
Are mysteries to us
A Tholian infection there
That’s dripping sparkly pus
He boldly went and boldly came
Where no man came before
Slaves and robots, ensigns, teens
Females by the score
Andorians and Romulans
Vulcans, Gorns, Iotians
If Kirk’s ejaculate was saved
It would have filled two oceans
Was this man a slut machine?
A horndog? Kinda. Sorta.
I heard one time on Klingon wine
He even fucked a horta.
Ports and storms, the saying goes
In every port a floozy
Landing parties partied on
He wasn’t even choosy
Now the space Lothario
The Casanova Kirk
The Romeo Rasputin-dicked
Nympho-manic jerk
Contends with constant penis pain
On every itching inch
And swarms of angry aliens
Now want a Kirk to lynch
Kirk’s new mission? Run and hide
From angry, angry exes
All-colours-of-the-rainbow-skinned
In ships the size of Texas
Out of wedlock children searching
For a father chase him
Jealous boyfriends, fathers, sons,
All want to erase him
The problem is that Kirk’s ‘explored’
in every single system
Every planet’s touched his cock
And every woman’s kissed him
So Kirk can’t hide for very long
This justice he can’t duck
It’s what he gets for beaming down
With phasers set to fuck
Good luck Jim, you horny fool
You randy, silly goose
I hope your cock’s not long enough
For them to make a noose

tags

It’s your wrong and my bad.

When we talk, it’s ritual without context. Stabbing, swimming, fluttering between our humorous anecdote exchanges and banal remembrances, our eyes and minds speak a whole other time period to each other. We reek of ‘what if’ and stink of paths not taken. It’s like our pheromones are hugging, snapping fingers, and high-fiving. Our lips speak to each other and it’s got nothing to do with the words they’re saying.

I want to support you in your goals, my left ear says. I want to see a mixture of your face and my face on our children, my fingers whisper. You make me know that if I had a genie, my first wish wouldn’t be for world peace. You light a campfire near my cowboy heart to keep it warm on this long ride across the prairies. A shooting star of forgiveness and light, making wishes unnecessary. You are a closed door that became an open window.

Sex rises up from your body like steam from spilled intestines on a winter battlefield. A sign of carnage. You have axes taped to your back underneath your wings and your eyes could engrave handcuffs with their strength. The gazelle you have trapped in your mouth speaks through your laugh. You turn inward for a moment and I see bare skin shrugs on bear skin rugs near a warm fireplace while the rain hits the windows. I’m looking through the wrong end of a telescope memory.

Let’s make this odd night into an evening. Let’s explore the topography of typography. Let’s separate the L33T from the chaff. Let’s throttle the throttle and have faith in shadows.

We’re both self-portraits. Let’s introduce each other to the artists.

tags

My entire celebrity life is online for people to experience.

There are over a million people looking out through my eyes, breathing in time with me, feeling my exhilaration as six months of rehearsal come to a head and I perform my number-one hits to a crowd of fifty thousand people in a Barcelona arena. My body is taut with the proportions of a goddess thanks to Olympic trainers and amazing surgeons. The online population’s hearts are racing along with mine. They’re smelling the air of a packed coliseum and tasting my Evian in between songs. Women and men both are dialed in behind my eyes and being me.

Each one of them is paying six hundred dollars to experience it. In my peripherals, the ones that have kicked in an extra hundred are chattering to each other and sending me messages. Scrolls of text run up either side of my vision that I have trained myself to ignore.

My encores end with a massive fireworks discharge and the stage goes dark. The crowd screams my name as I strut backstage along with my backup dancers and band.

A swath of names in my peripheral vision pops and fades. Their tickets have expired.

The half a million that are left have paid a thousand dollars each for the backstage experience. My body’s vital signs pump through the optical cables all over the world to wherever they are. Other celebrities are backstage crowding me for smiles and handshakes. Fans with real-world passes are there. There’s one girl with cancer who got her ticket as a last wish. I pose for pictures with her and I nearly cry. All over the world, five hundred thousand people nearly cry with me.

That lasts a half hour. I say a prayer with my fellow performers, we talk about how good tomorrow night is going to be in Los Angeles, and I head down to my dressing room. As I walk down the stairs, many of the names in my field of vision wink out.

There are a thousand people left in my field of vision. The super rich who can afford to be at this level at most of my concerts and a bunch of lucky strangers who have scraped together ten thousand dollars each to get this far.

Once in my dressing room, I undress slowly in front of the mirror and let them stare at my toned, sweaty body. Then I climb into the shower for a long, long time. Even when I close my eyes, I can see the names in my peripheral talk to each other about how amazing this is.

As soon as I reach for my towel, most of the names wink out. There are sixteen left and they have each paid a million to still be here. There are four new names but the rest are familiar to me, almost old friends at this point.

The door to my room opens and my lover with that famous smile. His body is also perfect. He won another Oscar last year. Behind his eyes, people lean forward in their sense chairs, aching with the knowledge that they are about to have sex with one of the best-selling pop musicians on the planet. Behind my eyes, sixteen people brace themselves , ready to athletically fornicate with a dreamy leading man.

The only time we’re alone is when we are asleep or going to the bathroom.

He touches my shoulder, going in for a full, hungry kiss, and my towel dramatically slips off of me and onto the floor.

tags

Hers was the devil’s mouth. Full of kinetic energy wrapped around a lightning-rod silver tongue with the full knowledge that tears conduct electricity. Pushing electrons out of speakers to make entire rooms question love and the validity of locks. A bear trap that doesn’t work anymore is just an art installation, a harsh carpet. Trigger me this, batman. If I poured your parent’s blood through a harmonica, would you hear their voices?

Some laughs just cut across the throat of crowded bars. Her laugh destroyed bridges. In no time at all, her love notes became half notes and she sang the song of storks. Crush hard on whatever slice of Europe is available to you, said the song. Love the feel of the word ‘escape’ clogging your elegant throat and making it hard to speak. Build a house out of lottery tickets and dog tags.

From far away, I beheld her in my arms. Dot dot dot. I sent her e-lips.

Men only proposed to her when they were on their backs. She always said no. She kept dragon wings in her hope chest. She drank panda tears. Sure, she got addicted to heroin but she got addicted in Italy. Sure, she fell down some stairs but it happened in Paris.

Sure, she died.

But she died in Prague.

Her failure was like fireworks to the rest of us.

tags

At first I was smitten and then I was smote
By all of the written-down words that you wrote
Your turn signal’s turning my signals to right
The love of your loving is lighting my light

I’ll burrow a furrow and plough a whole trough
To make sure my offer is getting you off
Your mother tongue’s tonguing the root of my speech
And I’ll beach myself on the shore of your beach

Sillier cilia, labia’s lib.
Phobia’s philia, fibia’s fib
Weather the weather together my dear
Week after weekend, year after year.

tags

Technically, there were still two sexes.

The gene techs realized that there was one way to double the births of a colony that was just starting out. Doubling the births meant a more stable gene pool in half the time it usually took. The solution was obvious but it was hard for the human minds back on Earth to swallow.

Two puberties.

One set of people grew up as women and then changed into men on their twenty-fifth birthdays. The other set grew up as men and then changed into women on their twenty-fifth birthdays.

In theory, this meant that everybody got a turn being pregnant and giving birth. The younger women would be impregnated by the older men and the older women would be impregnated by the younger men. Fertility drugs meant that twins and triplets were common.

Scientists. Too deep in their own experiments and repressed sexual urges to see the trouble they were creating. Freud would have had a field day.

The scientists thought that the men who turned into women would still have aggressive enough sex drives to seduce the younger men and that the women who turned into men wouldn’t objectify the younger women in an oppressive way.

In practice, the young ended up having sex with the young and the older ones ended up wanting to have sex with the young. Second puberty became a death knell. The second puberty women became known as cougars and the second puberty men become known as trolls. It was demoralizing to go through the second change.

The colony doctrine makers tried to make it a law that each person must impregnate at least one person while male and have at least one child while female.

The added pressure of legislation caused a resistance. That resistance became a violent rebellion. People were executed when they turned twenty-five. The colony’s social structure took a downturn into hedonism and savagery.

The colony was branded off limits to the shipping lanes and abandoned. They were on their own. It’s a dare now for new space-freighter drivers and pirates to visit the place and attempt to ‘enrich the gene pool’. The planet is no longer on any official charts and its location is spread by word of mouth.

A colony of young savages. Its nickname is Logan’s Eden.

Now, colonies are populated by either xx/xy humans or xy/xx humans but never both. Everyone gets a turn being male and female and giving birth but rebellion is avoided.

tags

If you're reading this, then you're human. I believe I have all of your addresses in my communication unit. If the records are correct. I am the Royal Babysitter. I'm drunk and if I don't get fired for this, consider this my resignation.

The queen of Earth is a tragic figure. She is eight years old. I am her guardian. We are all that's left of the royal family. We are two of the eight hundred humans left in the universe. As you remember, Earth itself was destroyed two years ago on Christmas when most people had gone home for the holidays.

Having recently joined the galactic council, there were only initial stage emissaries from most of Earth's countries out in the newly established embassies scattered around the Great Rim. There were long waiting lists on Earth for the new positions that came up. Politically, Earth's future looked bright.

No one was left in the aftermath of Earth's destruction to claim responsibility but it's thought that religious extremists maybe have created the small black hole that destroyed it. No recording satellites survived the destruction. Post-apocalypse analysis by the Vorlan'ta temporal forensic team indicated that the collapse started off the coast of Angola. No known terrorist groups had a home base there and that kind of technology shouldn't have been present there. So who knows? It will always be a mystery.

The influx of xenoreligions into Earth's databanks had been fascinating for the philosophers but tragic for the dominant religions of Earth. When faced with concrete evidence that their beliefs were merely opinions, many of the top-tier religious men of power took a non-tolerant stance to aliens. Backwater hicks. It's because of them that travel off of Earth slowed to a crawl in those early days.

Same with the governments. Before the firewall was circumvented by a few brave teenagers in Texas, Earth's public was only slipped information in drips of highly-spun tidbits. The more information the government agencies could hog to themselves, the better. Our race's inclusion in the council and eventual permissions to leave the planet took much longer than usual because of their caution.

So many more of us might have been out in the universe at the time of the implosion.

Right now, I'm looking at my passport with it's ridged, iridescent surface. I'm looking at the play of light across the simplified Earth embossed on the cover. It runs out in ten years. With no Earth left, what is a year? When this passport runs out, will I even be able to get a new one? Perhaps I'll be issued a default galactic council passport instead with The Late Earth as my planet of origin.

The Late Earth. We are a lost tribe now. Earth's child queen, Abraxa, is guaranteed a seat on the council as a representative of our race. She was left here with me as a punishment while the rest of her family went home for Christmas. The survivor's guilt is eating me alive. As a race with no home planet and a small population base, she has little to no power. And because she is a child, she has no interest in fiscal, economic, or geopolitical policy. We've joined the ranks of the Morcana and Fleezles in terms of innefectuality. We're little more than tourists killing time in between meetings.

Projections say that it will take centuries for us humans to achieve the numbers we used to have. Personally, I'm despondent. There are several races here that are able to have sex with humans and there are even six that are genetically compatible. I, myself, have fathered four half-breed children in the last year. I don't plan to stop. I'm fascinated by the mating rituals of the other races.

If there was anything that destroyed our race, it was our belief in our own purity. I hope that in a century, there are no pure-bred humans left. I intend to dilute our race's genes amongst the rest of the races so that only echoes survive.

I recommend you do the same.

tags

The way my race has sex has made me a natural choice for the role of diplomat, lawyer and event organizer at an interplanetary level.

Our planet adapted to overcrowding by creating new sexes. We have seventeen now. It seems to be holding steady there.

Myself, I'm a tertiary bi-valve post-pubescent fifth-stage spawning facilitator. I'm bright green and quite tall for my age.

I'm needed in the home stretch of our three-day mating rituals. By using what's called the 'augmented reacharound', I help fertilize the egg clusters sprouting out of the backs of the three gene-imprinting tri-spigot chain producers before the eggs are mixed in the chest cavity of a seconday monovalve pre-pubescent first-stage fertilization overseer and then deposited into the senile no-valve seventeenth-stage sacrificial carrier.

That's just the last five hours of the three-day ordeal.

The procedure is exhausting. We all need to be awake for the full three days of the sex. There's a two-day recovery period as well.

The timetable juggling that needs to take place to get sixteen shedules cleared and a will and last rites performed the carrier is a feat of patience and organization. Our social skills are awe-inspiring to other races. We have this ability to bring harmony to all conversations and smooth out conflicts. We can help bridge an understanding between the most different sets of personalities.

By comparison, the idea of organizing a press conference for a dignitary or memorizing some laws seems easy.

I've found a place here on the this planet called Earth. While I can't produce children, I do have the ability as a tertiary bi-valve to mate with this planet's populace. That's a rare thing in my travels. The Earthlings are ready for sex all-year round, much like my own race. Their unions only last a few hours, though.

The lack of complexity is refreshing to me. I'm sure in time it will become boring but my tour at the UN should be over before then. Right now, there is a young male and a older female at the end of bar. They are both looking at me, both unaware of each other's interest in me. I must cut a fine figure with my green skin and Armani suit.

I'll see what I can faciliate. The three of us should be getting to know each other much better within the next three or four hours.

tags

Profile

skonen_blades

June 2023

S	M	T	W	T	F	S
				1	2	3
4	5	6	7	8	9	10
11	12	13	14	15	16	17
18	19	20	21	22	23	24
25	26	27	28	29	30

Syndicate

Page Summary

Style Credit

Base style: Leftovers by sforzinda
Theme: Elegant Brown by krja

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags

Page generated 12 July 2025 06:59

Entries tagged with sex

When You Look At me

3 Sonnets Regarding a Man From Nantucket

Through My Eyes

Crush

12-30 Life's No Boneless Penguin

A new angle

Quenari

Thoughts on Existence

23/30 - Rhubarb Patch

21/30 - No Sex

8/30 - Old Poem for Clara

49/365 - Come Out of Your Shell

12/365 - Kirk's Dick

11/365 - Your Wrong and My Bad

Fame

23/365 - Tongue

8/365 - Smitten

Logan's Eden

Too Human May Concern

It's Complicated