JEFFREY EPSTEIN

It would be remiss to not comment on wicked reality and the demonstrative nature of this corpus, not yet dead a prioi, prejudicialin absentia, retried--its defaultor not found not guilty, but for lack of evidentiary signs of life, proceedings adjourned until 30th day of February.

However dead his outcome, unbecoming jurisprudence legend, they (or they want us to believe), with all inherent pitfalls falling off again, side-saddled, remounted ignoble horses, dappled in nigrosin, nacreous hues--illustrious, lustrous coats painted demotic (Gianni Versace and Clint Eastwood film a Spaghetti Western), the shiny magpie-eyed sister Donatella--overly listless, lisping to A-listers, leaning lithely like an Italian lorry, overloaded by kilos of babania-- those cacophonous designs from her brain to her shirts to our wallets go--and Geoffrey getting Greek sybaritic idyll's mainsails  blown.

It's getting hungry in here,
some ofay said,
as he glided past,

head-back

and yawned--

Geoffrey fed it a prawn.

   

But it was rich, yellowy, marbled, carnivorous roast on eponymous China--vanity plates served for first and last dates; here, one night--never again in civilized manor, those tricks he trucked in black lacquer beds low-slung to fuck in, with roofies, Hydromorphone, and peacock frim, diaphanous tranquility, proximate, apoptotic felicities,  the fiddle  burned diatonic, scalar arpeggia, glissing off leaded  parapets, pigeons defenestrate from cupola  over the Tiber, birds on wire, by road, migrate back--they've had it--more statues to paint shitblack.

    Learned helplessnessin flagrante  courses, was like calling sex with your lover, sex with horses.  

     Elephants grow tired, not forgetting dominatriceswielding crops, whipping lines into S&M tops.

    Breathless, topless, thematique villa trop commune et vulgaire, uniquement avec Lucullus, Beard, Dahmer, Donner et Childs - dont le slogan du cabinet d'avocats :

Eat What Thou Wilst Above As Below Come Thus Again ... Thine Is What Thine Is: Gourmands sans titres, pedophiles sans morals, hebephiles avec les femmes, qui prefere jeune filles.

    A toast to Mr. Epstein, in whose company and malignity we fly.

    In God  We Trust, discretion defer Alan Dershowitz, unconscious defense recalling OJ.

    To Viagra, Cocaine, and the things Jeffrey brings (en espanol):

No me digas nada.Habla más alto en la escala.No pagará.Abortar ahora.El estómago es una piñata.No hablo de nada.Cuando ella era una hija.Mi vida es más ahora sin ella.Ella no es blanca.Dolores, ella.Sin ti, somos los demás, no la hija.

Don't tell me anything.

Speak up on the scale.

It will not pay.

Abort now.

The stomach is a piñata.

I'm not talking about anything.

When she was a daughter.

My life is better now without her.

She is not white.

Dolores, her.

Without you, we are the rest, not the daughter.

     Maidens laden chronologically, little chicks--full grown size--two ortolan bites--even the eyes--gooseberry sauce, rocambauche badinage reveal nympholets' gustatory, mnemonic palate, cleft insensate, malnourished from diets starved by rejection, maternal rights abandoned for traded affection, sated all wrong, only to abjure.

     Disassociate me please from this party platter--I am not this, but if I am, then surely not the latter. Which one am I to be, the pilot, chef, butler--oh, no,please don't sayJeffrey-- inglorious blandishment, this Bonfire Verisimilitude, no one here, nor on top the pyre--no Ponzi, Patsy, all elude the fire.

I renounce this vile sickness, but I am not denied its trending playlist on shuffle, repeat--intrusive reference--now look whom the cat dragged in.