Jefferey Epstein Gianni Versace: 'It's getting hungry in here,' an ofay said as he glided past, head back and yawned--Geoffrey fed it a prawn

JEFFREY EPSTEIN

It would be remiss not to comment on wicked reality and the demonstrative nature of this corpus -- not yet dead, a prioi -- prejudicial, in absentia -- its defaulter not found not guilty, but for lack of trying, evidentiary signs of life--proceedings adjourned.

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

 

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

head back, and yawned--Geoffrey fed it a prawn.

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

    Learned helplessness in flagrante--like calling sex with your lover, sex with horses.  

     Elephants grow tired, not forgetting dominatrices wielding crops, whipping bottoms of 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 Whilst, Above As Below  ... Thine Is 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, unconsciousness.

    To Viagra, Cocaine, and 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.

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

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

     Disassociate me, please, from this party platter--I am not this, but if I am, surely not the latter.

Which one am I to be?

The pilot, chef, butler--please don't say Jeffrey-- inglorious blandishment, this verisimilitude;

No one here, nor atop the pyre--no Ponzi, Patsy, elude the fire.

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