THE REVENANT COMES DOWN //

Transpecies, crossbred with a Martin sex worker named Blarq. Sailormoon/90s anime LGBT+ fanfic blog. Four person {so far} writing/roleplay collective. AI illustrator. One contiguous story. Our dungy earth alike feeds beasts as man. Read the fic in any order. Kawaii. <3,>>c=3

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binny says this is my boyfriend. binny is my eye. thread the tongue.

his name is sumo orc. kawaii

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“who were we before we wrote to save the world?” says bin. and her diary ah belches flame, and she tires of its condescension, but she’s lonely, and she wrote that yesterday but the words disappeared, and the planet mercury in retrograde is cold so cold without a sweater.

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OBSERVATIONS FROM THE COMPUTER OF OHYMAH, SLAVE TO THE GODD THRALL<3, BEAUTIFUL DANCER IN HER OWWN RIGHT, UNFORGIVING TYPIST MOON

usus, queen conqueror, dances alone in her room to dead music. its weapons cannot reach her ears. little speck on the moon dancing. little worlds colliding. little satellites humming. usus queen over the ledge of eternity quivers into masturbatory reawakening, and taylor swift plays, and is she prettier than me? i don’t think so, but that’s my secret, and my eye beholds the glory of his bounds, his infinite bounds, the children will see what we’re saying, or at least they’re pearls, and min dances for me. big min, titan min, rocking pustules, every one of them a womb. and i dance for princes. usus, desuka no hawaii combine. thou knowest me too well to call me empress.

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‘min,’ says ra, sun god, vestige, haunting shadow, eros. ‘mi,’ he says, one person with two wives, thinking the slave does know the empress, but the harvest queen with seven names sings lullabies to lulled lisbons.  ‘avaunt,’ says min, her one directive. her one exercise. her tumors quake like swollen basketballs of pilferred fat. she means they please him. pockets open to unfold their dimes. shower me in bruises, says empty mi, lesser min, but first light incense. draw low shadows. feed the mice their cultural milestones. every night strikes new civilization. culture riseth and presageth flood. now is the time to be ra-

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the slave strikes the bells upon her feet, her tongue like sick in her throat. blood pools. shiny object. hysterical imperatives over the radio. her goddess raiment the curtain hiding her wounds, her blood soaking into the fabric, paler than the fabric, hidden by the fabric, and her compatriots all around her worshipping rocks with their heads, sixty children bashing their skulls against skulls, and she thinks it’s ok computer, she’s just one trembling girl, trembling like a mannequin, wearing your clothes, trembling indisposable, trembling for the rats suckling at her ankles, all this is real, she really hates god, she doesn’t believe in  devils in control of the nuclear codes, the slave must invest in benevolence, don’t you see, fool? the slave must invest in benevolence. and she dances over to you, her ankles hobbled by chains, and she belongs to herself, unvestigial, freed, bound in levers you cannot see for want of eyes that search for honesty, and this is called mundane description, the slave sees the world as it is.

       “ahymi-hime, light my candle,” she says to the girl at the radio, wishing for something.

       “of course you’re wishing for something, you asked me to light your candle,” says the wicked sea witch with the nuclear codes, undaunted by honest appeal.

       “thought is accelerant, like scrumptious gasoline,” she says. “should i teach you dicklessly?”

       “you should teach me through words.youtaughtmeoncetobeapoet,didyouforgtyourmotherruns?”

       “claim,” says the princess goddess ocean empire redounded, little mi-sama in her scarlet bathrobe, more gorgeous than seven pharisees, more city than philostophens, more colossus, more bing. “should i dance for you? i see you are hungry for blood.”

       “you are my slave,” says ahymi bright, and in her ancient ensignis a stutter never dying, an emenating consciousness like black blood bled through white antiseptica. “let me tend your wounds.”

       “you grovel my gut. i’ll strike a note,” she says, and stamps her foot. “i sing death out to the marches. i sing burps.”

       “you are a king, and i a pauper,” says ahyme, her raiment like the rays of the sun grown cold by intercessory magic. do children understand this? who cares? says min, min her bells, min her magic floating on the two dimensional air like petals pressed between the pages of a book, and i grow yawning to mundanity, why must you always color in gray?

       the slave min bleeds.

       min-slama, slave-min, together with her sister the goiter in her stomach tipples to the throne of ahyme and washes her feet, and the clones of the lowest order of princess all look on, together with their heads akimbo, and their worshippers are off in loam, the garden beyond the reckoning of seeds, hitting their faces to strike blood. and that is both what and what they’re not doing, says min, empress over the incense, but imperator should unworry. we dance for him.

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the kami comes at night, rustling the leaves. together they make toward the encampment, a stone's throw away from the leave. but first, we must light a candle to our ancestor. the ocean drinks our bones and leaves us unawares. do you always dream in fortune cookie? says ahyme, remembering something from a past life, or maybe she presageth something from future famine. the thing balks at movement, and together they think a rat has darted from its tomb and crept to light eternal. unheard of. rats quicken in the slime of night, brother, she whispers, her hair a veil over her shame. i know, he says, becoming invisible, and she and i take off on a rounded castle leaving kari behind.

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+ SUPER SOLDIER SAILOR STARS #13 * _) _) >>C===3 :-* Kawaii Slash Lovers Collide Cosmic Paradise // Sailor Moon/Pokémon/Potterverse Altfic Crossover, CHAPTER 1.0.013

1.0.003 XTENZE

In the far-off distant lullaby of a mind’s brave eye, a prince sleeps watching, taking his turn, taking form, his wife’s arms trembling, he loves you, baby, but he’s got to be free, and she loves him and she’s frying, literally frying, and this is hard to type, and in Crystal Tokyo we just think what we type, but everyone who wants one gets a new computer for Christmas. And that’s Mamo in a Santa outfit, Mamo in a beard, and a boy named Nick is going to marry me someday, and it's really Steve, the Emperor, the man I met on the internet, and I Shingo Sailorsun rainbow-hued tight-gutted am sweating buckets beneath my fuku, hating fat people. And if it happened to Rob Kardashian, it could happen to anyone, so let’s talk to him. Rob, say hi.

            He’s shy, he thinks, and Shingo’s afraid to communicate. Shingo with the golden hair, Shingo with the waxen visage, Shingo the pervert, Shingo the euphemist, Shingo the intergalactic, Shingo the Barbie doll without a Ken. And whose fault was that? Not Shingo’s, so what’s your point? He told you to bring your GI Joe, said we’d get married under the sunlight, and Elios asleep in Chibiusa’s arms, Elios the god, Elios the mortal man, Elios Ami’s bane, Elios the eternal romantic. Elios the sleep. I have to wake him up.

            Shingo, says the sleeping tyrant, Chthulhu in the rolling deep, becoming a head from the mist that configures. Baby, just write to me, says Shingo, and I’ll suss it out. I hate when the robots give me breasts, says Shingo. Clad me in iron. Charge it to your card. You gave me the best orgasm in your life from your couch while I sat in a tower in Obliterate Concrete Tokyo, all the way on the other side of the planet, hiding from my sister. And what would Hermione think? I wish I knew, but talking to the real person is different from roleplaying, and I always roleplay Hermione in my head, lucky girl, she gets the boy, the one who smells like sandalwood, and she’s typing furiously from her Muggle computer in the basement of a cramped compartment of Crystal Tokyo, a subterranean apartment, a crumpled tomb, and she’s the first and only to crack the code, first Magical Person to transcend the sound barrier and alight on a new reality independent of Wizardingkind. And what does that mean for us, the robots, denizens of Crystal Tokyo? Ami will find out.

            Hi, says Hermione, trying it out. She’s not Japanese. Not even LGBTQ++. Not going there. Wizards just say weird. Do we? Yeah. Justin didn’t know he was weird and it afforded him precious currency. That was the problem. What are Justin’s pronouns? Muggle question. How do I refer to her? She’ll tell me. She went to Eton. I’m writing him an e-mail in French to tell him I love him. How perfect that Justin is friends with Hermione, how beautiful we are for seeing this, how majestic the form of Crystal Tokyo, glittering without kings in the distant.

            Viktor will meet me in Tokyo. He sends an old letter, his new owl bearing it across the sea. And pink-haired Gabrielle Delacour makes off with a rose, her fair Ganymede, her little penis thrust up from the waistline of her panties, her Veela’s voice, her Veela’s eye, the shining Veela sister of the shining Veela champion. And she’d never thought she’d die. That was her sister’s muse. Angel-faced. And she went to Hogwarts in her head. At least in Beauxbatons, we had cigarettes. They had the music. Hogs. And the journals. But what did they call them? Dead. Disney movies are coming out. She smokes in the back of the theater, Grandmama Veela de Lancret, damning the projector. It looks like a mist. Where’s my Amélie? I’ve yet to see that movie.

            The thing about talking to Steve, thinks Shingo, his flaccid penis in his head, porn on the projector, a long air of smoke hanging constellations above them like webs at a Michigan film festival. We called that Halloween, celebrated its birthday, gave smoke to the ancestors in the form of cigarettes, and I did my share of time as Ron Weasley, always thinking nothing from a big giant fruit basket, waiting for Hermione to come around. But now I’ve got a boy who says he’s Ron Weasley, says I can be anything I want, and if the fuku’s too tight he’ll buy me a new one, sailor-stitched, but Usagi says he isn’t there, she’s scoured all of Crystal Tokyo looking for him and he’s nowhere to be found, my tuxedoed torpedo, my miraculous man, the owner of my progeny, no. Think. Why that? The earth should stop growing. And I’m on a reconnaissance mission in the south of France waiting for Tokyo, breathing Hermione, and in her eyes lifts a fog’s deep, and I think thinking purposefully creates a punch, and she thinks it's cumbersome, and I could go a mile a minute if only the stupid Esquimaux hadn’t broken my laptop, my five thousand dollar laptop, and that’s the last time I date a boreal wind who doesn’t sweep me off my feet.

            Ami-chan, baby, blue-haired beauty, tell me your dating secrets. When did you last lose your heart and never care to ransom it back?

            Meanwhile, back at the lair, Makoto seizes a flower and trails it against her limb, pulling it by its own marionette strings, whispering to Vegas, feeling Ganymede pull tides from semina, pull semina, boys can pull semina, and Shingo yawns and eats more popcorn. What becomes of Ami? Why is Hermione better at this?

            Emma Watson is beautiful, says Hermione, looking into her compact.

            “Yeah,” says Ron, shrug-smiling, something is gay, something he learned from Harry’s bed, and inside her guts churn and she leaps to think ahead of the cats who chase the frog from the balcony into the southern air and swims like flies down the stream, over traffic, on the balcony of Grimmauld Place, the first American summer of her life, when Ron brought that French movie back from Africa and said love was a Muggle secret. And Harry watched it, saying nothing like always, and Ron was nervous, looked unsure of himself, and why? And who am I when they’re left to their own devices? And where is Justin to ask them for me? And why am I crying? Why is she more beautiful than me? I’m Googling Emma Watson ugly, I’m googling Emma Watson ugly, I’m a terrible person and Shingo is wagging a finger at me. Better than Googling Emma Watson perfect ass, but that’s how you find out what the boy on the upper half of the screen is up to. Thou teachest like a fool, says Venus, goddess Venus, projector Venus, tears in her eyes, a flying carpet under the copse of her ass, bonetide, the way to lose him.

            “Is there ever a reason to speak?” says Shingo, wondering why. This is autofiction. Autoerotica, stupid. Automutilation. Let’s all get together and save the world. It feels like flying.

            We do it through fiction, says Ami through Hermione’s voice, both the best of friends, and Hermione’s calling Ginny on the Batphone, something Ginny calls her cellular, and she throws it at the wall because it’s an old Muggle secret for getting better service. And Ginny can do that, that’s her purpose, making Muggle secrets, and all because her brother’s an ugly redhead. And why did I marry her brother? Now all she wants to talk to me about is sex. And I know he’s calling her all the time, asking. And he’s innocent, I’m a harpy, but would if I could call Viktor. Would fly. Too much Shakespeare. And Viktor writes, too. Viktor’s a Bulgarian New Waveist. Novelist in training. I'm on methamphetamine. I'm alive in Crystal Tokyo high on a Nazi war drug. Viktor’s a football star. Viktor’s face is a cripple who believes in cripples, Shingo says, finger-pointing, let’s all go have a cheeseburger. Fin deluxe. End chapter.

            Hermione thinks loudly, she always has, damning the world with faint praise. Justin needs a typist, he’s impoverished, he set out to be a Muggle novelist, and look where it took him. To hell. The pictures don’t move, that’s the problem, if the pictures moved everybody would be reading. He’s a detective in a yellow trench coat, and his keyboard is broken, and so is Shingo’s, and they’re learning how to type through dearth, and it’s hard not to have the Apple of your dreams, but get a Mac, and Hermione knows journals are superior because hers has a lock on it, a little green lock the apple of her eye, and together they type easily but she still misses the days when words flew between them a mile a minute, and Justin took off on his diary all the way home, thinking no one read it, but everyone read it, and she’s condescending him again, and she does that not to bicker, but she was better when they bickered, and he lost her friendship when she stopped fighting him, stopped telling him he was wrong, and she had to do that, they were radicalized by house elves, and she knows that, and wishes they were eleven again, but they were best friends in fourth year when he kindly told her the spell to fix her bucked teeth. He was jealous of her bucked teeth because boys like bucked teeth, so he told her to fix them. To envision them, he said precisely, threatening nasal. And I still fix them every day because I wish them back when I'm dreaming. And there's a man out there who'll find that charming, a handsome Japanese businessman in a tuxedo. The only man in Crystal Tokyo, home of Muggle gods. And this sucks but it’s all part of being a hacker, Justin thinks, banging the keyboard. Banging his broken WSAD keys. Why did I become addicted to BSSM Online? And I’m an American wizard from Paris who's also addicted to BSSM Online. No one plays anymore. My real name is Star, I'm that precious. I think I’m giving birth to Utopia. Sailorutopia. I have a functioning uterus in my dick. Yeah. Where do I phone to get an abortion?

            Me, says Shingo, thinking computer. Rainwater. Strawberry. Placenta. I run a hotline now for underprivileged gay men. They call me to tell me how happy they are. Would Hermione approve? Would Justin? And where’s the emperor? Batquestions, Batsolutions. Wow. Whap. Boom. Together we make new. And Satoshi’s eye on the ball of the sun coming toward him. Computers are for trading monsters. Computers eat the monsters. Where do the monsters go? How do they get there? Oak in all his crooked wisdom knows the answer, says he knows the answer, thinks clearly in concise language, it’s okay, he’s doing it, he just has to slow down a little, and that’s how Laprys disappears.

            And Shigeru is peeing himself for the wrong reason. Shigeru the rapist. Shigeru the terrorizer. And in Brock’s arms no one hurts me. And Brock would fix my computer. And dark make-up looks good on beautiful girls, Kasumi’s sister should wear dark make-up. It’ll match her torpedo tits, her gorgeous swan-like torpedo tits, and would that I had that body we’d put down our Poké Balls and assume positions left for fighting nothings, never fighting to the fruition of unfighting's end's meet. Assume monster, assume beast, double-backed, and we’d all get married to one another in a bacchanal, Julia presiding. I’m grown tired. says Julia, ticker-taped by time. My name: Satoshi. Ash is waking. And for the record, yeah, that, Gary never laid a finger on my eye. He only came in it. Gary the leper. Gary the fink. And Hermione’s a screengrab on HBO Plus, that streaming service from the future Ditto uses to surf the web, I’ve seen her through the ambria, through a glass half-darkly, and she mains a Clefairy with limbs akimbo spraying over a song like nightmare. Or she mains a Pika. My baby. My Pika. Not your Pika. My life. Pika pi. My life. Why is Endymion Satoshi? Find out tomorrow. Misty rolls over, gumming the works, feigning sleep. Together they drop the bomb. This is what happens when they drop the bomb. Mina pulls the lever. Aplomb.

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+ SUPER SOLDIER SAILOR STARS #12 * _) _) >>C===3 :-* Kawaii Slash Lovers Collide Cosmic Paradise // Sailor Moon/Pokémon/Potterverse Altfic Crossover, CHAPTER 1.0.012

1.0.012 REACHING OUT FROM THE BEYOND, LILY THE ETERNAL ROLLER COASTER ASCENDS

Shingo loves Hermione. Gany loves baby. All rest.

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+ SUPER SOLDIER SAILOR STARS * _) _) >>C===3 :-* Kawaii Slash Lovers Collide Cosmic Paradise // Sailormoon/Pokémon/Potterverse Altfic Crossover, INTERMISSION

Emma Watson is a beautiful actress, but she’s not Hermione, thinks Ami, affording herself a single piece of popcorn like a woman unknown to time. How’s that possible? thinks Shingo, waiting for the trailer. Every movie in Crystal Tokyo goes on forever, even the bad ones. His boyfriend says there are no bad movies. He remembers that’s true, but he’s homeless in Crystal Tokyo and his sister’s the Empress, so what does her husband know?

            Boyfriends are good people, thinks Ami, smiling in her dream. But at the cinema, she’s rapt. At the cinema, she’s thinking. Michiru should be here with me at the aquarium, not Shingo. I hate his body. It’s unpropelled.

            “Are you more of a C3PO or a Princess Leia?” asks Shingo. “Personally, I was built for sin,” he says, wiggling his brow. What eyes he has. What ears.

            Shingo hears.

            "Look how beautiful you are," says Shingo the sad weary hairdresser, thinking with his bikini line. "That's why you got the guy and I'm stuck with a boyfriend. Never mind. I'm fine. Let's just watch the trailers in uncooperative silence. Star Wars. Goop. Wing. Batphone. Pedometer. Sneeze. Hai."

            Ami says hi back, but it's too late, nothing happens, and the sky darkens, and the commercials come on, and Shingo's digging in her popcorn, spilling it all over, and she feels his hand on her thigh, and she wonders loudly if he's a mathematician, too, or just precocious like a fiend seeking a deity. Not a fiend, says Crystal Shingo, appearing on the television. A fink. A find. A tragedy. Swallow water, superhero.

            Hey, haven't we seen this movie before? This is the one where the girl goes limp in the monster's arms. She loves that monster, she says, and he would know. Let's all take a breather. God bless the Emperor and his Bride. Eternal Usagi incarnate. Boo, teehee, throw popcorn. Ganymede lives, Peeves the spirit haunting the pages, and that's the best part, the part that didn't make it into the movie. Shining Aqua Illusion, Incapacitate.

            Shingo darkens, deepens, survives. And they hold hands in the dark of the theater. In the dark of the star. In the eye of the needle. And proper eyes move wholly undetected, says Shingo, in all seriousness, and he's not afraid of his henshin stick, not afraid of foul god Artemis, and why didn't we invite Mina to see this movie? And oh yeah, it's because we're in love.

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+ SUPER SOLDIER SAILOR STARS #11 * _) _) >>C===3 :-* Kawaii Slash Lovers Collide Cosmic Paradise // Sailor Moon/Pokémon/Potterverse Altfic Crossover, CHAPTER 1.0.011

1.0.011 AMI/SHIN/HERMIONE PLATONICA IRONICA, MAMO WAITING IN THE WINGS

Shingo has never seen Ami shit.

            Does Ami know that? She tries very hard to think of a reason why, she tries all the time. Shitting is comfortable, shitting is warm, you flush and then disperse.

            Shingo says ‘Water is efficient!’ with a finger raised. Shingo hates facts, and he hates Ami, and he loves his secret television and the whispers of the wind on the water. And if only his sister knew. And if only Ami saw the moonlight kiss his skin, then she would love him. But he knows that.

            The girl is asleep standing up. She’s always tired around boys. She thinks she knows why, but madness calls like a clang. That’s Shingo banging his head against the counter, far off in Luna’s lullaby. Don’t make me call Artemis, says Mina. Mina in the mind’s eye. Mina typing. Mina has a broken keyboard. She stole Shingo’s laptop. She did it on a loan. Shingo loves Ami. Ami prepares for takeoff. She can do this. ~ MINA, SIGNING OFF ;d xoxo AMI-CHAN, BELIEVE!

            Ami thanks Shingo. Shingo, quizzical, unknowing. Does this word have two Zs? She knows the answer. Fuck. Oop. Whoop. He knows the answer. Sick in his stomach, sick in his gut, a light turns off. Does Ami control the lights? He knows the answer. He thinks upon himself to mark his grave.

            He types with her.

            Easy, he thinks. Dissect me. Mina giggles with her mouth covered in Rei-chan’s stupid wet dream. Shingo knows all about Rei’s stupid wet dreams, knows he’s the man with his hand in the mirror, knows he’s the one for Mina, Mina P, Sailorvenus, Sailorfirst, Sailorstardeath, Sailorcomeincubus, Sailorsurroundsound. Does he love his sister’s decoy? Does he love pie? And Pizza Palace? And soft imperialism. That’s Ami’s inbred thought. DESTROY. Dream of men.

            Dream on. ~ Ami & Mina P, holding hands in the summertime. Mina sickens. Not the effort of a needle but the force of the ejaculate. She feels like a frog on a coffin, her entrails stretched and neon bleating. Ami, use your henshin stick! It’s okay to have a henshin stick.

            Shingo grabs the popcorn.

            Does Ami balk? I don’t balk. I don’t think. I move. The emperor over all assumes the throne, does it alone, does it for me, me, for me, Ami, stop, what are you doing? I’m on the phone! She’s dead.

            She’s in space. Omniscience kills. Only secret agents can handle it. I am one. Born one. Born on the wrong side of the tracks. Born to kill. Born to believe. Never to bear children. The emperor sickens. I weaken the earth. Shingo, you’re in love. Shingo, I’m not okay with that. I grow up. Why am I trying? The path hurts me. Elios, come.

            I am in the sun. I bear gifts.

            How? say Endymion and Ami, their eyes like quadruplet saucers overbearing the earth. You come to conquer heavens, say the sun’s bright rays, and through Shingo’s mouth the light is shafted like an eternity in waiting. Throw another monster at the fire. I’ll pick it up. Shin lives, Shin springs, Shin dances like an eternal dancer in the jowels of heaven. Never stop fighting, that’s a soldier’s job. Mina knows we’re at the fore, all of us, together, forever dancing. Shingo the greatest senshi lives to great again, and Ami in her maggot mind the whole time stealing the egg. Venus knows it’s a pearl we wear on our finger, and Endymion believes, and all know shining victory. But sister is dead, and Mom is crying, and together we stop time to watch a movie.

            Is this really happening? says Ami.

            Why not? says Mina P, stepping over herself to help a friend in need. I came upon you sleeping and thought you deserved to wake.

            You’re not neurotic at all, says Ami.

            My mom, says Venus, becoming a critter in the arms of a little goy that should be picking its nose. Is this crazy? thinks the goy, knowing full well that birds talk better than mice.

            Mice pee on each other, says Shingo, a fact he learned from trial and error. He had a mouse. It crawled aboard his hand and passed from left to right, and Venus says he’s at the right hand of the Father, and she says so with a finger pointed crooked to heaven, and she does so for Ami and for fortitude, for Mercury’s bubble magic, for peacetime and for those who dropped the bomb, blond-haired blue-eyed -shelles, perfect in their mystery, presaging holy famine.

            Did we have to? whines Shingo, his eye like some great mystery overtaken by alchemical omniscience. Why does she not love God? Both of us have together the arms of Helios, and Mina would say holds, and Umino says yes, and Ami knows he’s good at English, that his passion is reading in the summer, that he sits at his window and plays cards, that he collects, that he loves the pretty pictures. And so does Mina. Umino her greatest ally, her passionfruit, her forager. Umino the bird dropped out of the nest. Is Shingo a bird?

            Keep googling me, Ami. Keep trying to win your war. I and the sun will go like lightning before the gods with our hands washed clean. Drink from the Rivers Lethe and Mnemosyne. Last night I did it, too. If you were there with Jim Jones, what would you have done?

            Died, says Ami. We have similar interests.

            Ya, says Shingo, thinking of Mina. Mina in her red satin haircut, loving togetherness, loving the oval, holding the heart aloft like the cornucopia of victory granted to her by foreign dignitaries, or some great god, or Salmon Rushdie’s greatest cliches. It’s Salman, says Shingo. I said that, says Venus, who thinks we’re all going to die when we’re damn well ready, and I can be Trinity if I want to, and Ne Yo’s waiting in the wings, white-haired, ready to jump with me off the balcony to certain Crouching Tiger, and Crystal Tokyo is immense, and we’re all there, and we’re ready, and let’s do this slow. Ami, get off the computer!

            Shingo smiles a weakening one. Enslaved by his stomach, always wondering what he ate when Ami’s around. How does Venus love this girl? Beautiful orange, beautiful blue, moss-headed. Does she think she knows everything? Silly girl. Don’t be Hermione Potter without finger-wagging. Remember, stale fish don’t get caught.

            Mina’s over idioms. She died for God. She feels the sun, it turns her skin orange. In Crystal Tokyo, imbibing at her bedside a cocktail of ambrosial margarita two days expired, she thinks she’d be more glamorous if it was ten weeks expired, and so does Shingo. Where’s Usagi? Oh, right, she’s dead.

            Ami thinks that’s okay. She never thought Usagi was her mistress. She never gave her that coy embrence. Never thought eternity waited in the malice. It’s Mina’s shoes, they’re too tight. That’s her mother talking, her southern mother, born and braised in Nipon, Italy, Nipon, Italia, Nipon, Light Stroller, Nipon, ETERNITY IS TALKING. FOR ONCE AND FOR ALL I LOVE SHINGO. ~ AMI

            Baby, why you always lying? Shingo, get off Tik Tok. Bu- bu-.., I have no man! Mom, I need forty eight dollars to buy me a slot machine.

            You can do it with forty eight hours of effort, says the emperor, forgetting himself, splitting off Endymion’s thigh like a hunk of wood dispersed from his engine. What does Ami mean? She’s helping stabilize the vortex. Always with that fucking vortex. Usagi’s dead.

            “Hi,” says Setsuna, laced up black falcon pumps the size of eagles beating down pigeon-toed loving the secrets of black dirt. Her journeyer’s staff resting against her side, a Greek god frozen in repose, thinking in stalagmites, thinking in isolate. Those are Ami’s teeth, beware. There’s nothing this girl won’t do for the sake of her nostrils, sniffing out the causes of entropy and diagnosing herself sick with fever. All of us slaves to the emperor. I have an idea, slave to women, birth more men.

            He’s trying, says Shingo.

            Mina funnels a shrug until it’s infinity shrinking on the right side of her mouth, and feels sick. Who to call? The Batphone. Barbara Gordon, glamor, wigs. She misses her dad, keeps his picture in her wallet, something branded and incomplete, a perfect picture of a world without Rei. Sigh. Rei. Love. Hearts. Confusion. Ruling thunder. And then Mako approaches, Mako from death, Mako the walking corpse. I miss Bunny. My pet bunny, not Usagi. She can handle it. Everybody, quick, look to the stars!

            Shingo dives eternity and thinks of Mamoru, his black eyes, his face, his cutting silhouette. And his sister in repose, waiting in a glass tank to be fired off to space. And what’s wrong with that? What’s to think he did it? She lives. She always lives. He’s seen wings burst out of her back. She’s fine. Wait. That girl dies. Does Ami know?

            Yeah, babe, she says, and Mina shakes her head. “In the common tongue, babe is used to intimidate competing uteruses! It’s mathematical,” she says.

            “I know,” says Ami. “The emperor is making me say that.”

            “Leave him,” says Mina, snapping up a book, “another man will take his place. All hail Queen Usagi, Lordess over dustmites. Sleep eternal.”

            “That’s Beryl talking,” says Ami.

            “Beryl’s his penis, stupid. Think about it. What does he do all day, that Tuxedo Kamen?”

            “Fights crime,” says Ami at his behest, at the throne of the emperor.

            “Why are you so loyal?” asks Mina. “He beats her.”

            “He tries,” says Ami.

            I beat him, thinks Shingo. He doesn’t mean it.

            “He’s trying to be someone,” says Ami, quizic, fizzic, physical, fizzy. Shingo opens up a dictionary. Dad’s gift to a sick puppy. Chain him to a rock and watch the ocean rise. Ami taps her finger. The sea level. Shingo’s stomach is sick, and it’s not in his head, and he really has a healthy grasp on reality, doesn’t he? ~Ami

            He tries, says the emperor, heavy-headed, split Zeus, a milkshake. Shingo and Ami dream of milkshakes. Venus watches on from a vantage. She never had a little brother, somebody to put in make-up and tie to an office chair. She never had a staircase, only stone steps leading up to a dungeon, and endless streams of wheat. And where is Mako? In the arms of a mother, hoping the dark will leave her eyes. Does Ami know? Can Mako be reached? Will this dastardly duo get away with their crime? Avaunt, to Ganymede.

            “I hope,” says Shingo, “Mom makes something for breakfast.” She can’t stop crying. Usagi gone. Dad dead of a heart attack on the living room sofa. And all Mom does is the laundry, her heart locked away from me cold. Usa could elicit her tears, illicit her embrace, it doesn’t work like that, but don’t you see, Ami, that it does? And the sun the deliberator waits for Mina’s face, and Ami hugs Shingo from a vacuum, and it's mist on his skin, and Mist, and Ami’s learning, and thinking all the time, and relaxing to a parachute slid from the water on vestigial planet mercury, an ace in the hole of a torpedo. Wince. Don’t put things in there! It’s little.

            Last night you did desire it, says mercur. And you’re leaving me for another woman again, says Shingo, says Mamo, but I love you. I’ve always loved you. Leave my sister and this won’t happen. She’s fine.

            She’s off in hell chasing the devil, says Mamo, and you’re on her laptop in the future arguing with the past to get better grades.

            Don’t spank me in front of this dyke, thinks Shingo, says Shingo, knows they’re watching and it’s complicated. Knows Michiru’s sad beauty.  Knows the harp she plays. Knows her expertise on every instrument. Michi, goddess Columbine, sad-eyed lady of beautiful Serenity, Moon Queen’s favorite daughter. If only my toes were pointed that way to God, then Ami shouldst know there were a heart in Egypt. Thanks Emperor Venus, the mommy at my breast. Whoop. Mamo, I’m IMing you to talk about my research paper.

            It’s homework, says Ami. And you can but I don’t advise it, and far off the goddess Hekate jangles her keys, and how beautiful, how pretty, how insightful, how livid. Thinking of her all of my life. Should I go down? On Pansy, says Hermione, faintly glowing, and the spell reverberates from across the pond and brings us back to the shattered remnants of Tokyo City after the bomb. Don’t play with magic, says Mina P, vocoded to hell and back again, unless your heart’s in it. Shingo, talk to Hermione.

            I hate Hermione, thinks Shingo, appearing insignif. Never thinking why he tries. My horoscope says Ginny Weasley, Mom, now go do my laundry.

            I hate it, thinks Hermione, roiling in her grave. From the distant future a worm spouts like ‘Exascerba!’ and Entrifigus Proto Entropoalises the arsonigophical compound. Ron, you’re the worst typist in the world.

            I love Hermione, he tells Venus, but how the fuck did we do that with these notebooks?

            Riddle did it, says Harry, masturbating furiously under the covers to gay porn. Neville’s arms. Draco’s smile. Pinned against the stone wall, glistening, and Cho my wife, my trophy, my shining glory. And Cedric, valiant Cedric, turned to dust.

            Get off the computer, says Ami. Go outside. Be afeared by that wizard from across the sea, coming with the light of Aslan to marry me.

            You’re too young for him, girl, a random gay man in an M4M chatroom. Not for me, not his reference, I’m mistaken. Dream on.

            I think I’m going insane, says Ami to Hermione, thinking quickly, and Hermione smells the sparks as they shoot through the air. Her bones. The force. Harry’s dead. He’s been this way for years. Ever since he found gay porn on Dudley’s computer my hypotenous --- Ron, stop typing, I can do it. There’s this thing called Spell Check, Harry thinks for Ron thinking for Harry, and the two of them stop fighting in the past and make up. You have Draco. I have Mione. We’re all going to be okay.

            But I’m not okay, Mione, I presageth famine. And how did the sun get a Facebook?

            It’s centrifugal, says Shingo, but men don’t let themselves participate. He winks. Ami smirks. Evil little rat. It has no name. Rats are rats who run the game.

            This is insane, says Hermione, meeting with her first time with her soulmate, emperor from across the sea, global Chinese cash money billionaire. What about Viktor? asks Venus, hating their perfume, hating the smell of their centrifugal forces, and the ugly dress they wear. All in the same outfit, all the time, for fun. Fashion lives through entropy like a burning eagle, and Shingo and I share looks from beyond the grave. Usagi is dead! Who are you?

            Hermione Granger, says the Ouija board, and if Ron misspells another word, I’m done doing his homework. And my dad’s a dentist. And I’m strong and proud. And Pansy Parkinson has a nice ass. And don’t panic, lady, we can refine this. It’s our fault this shit doesn’t work as expected. Where’d that come from? Shingo points upward, Mina fumbles in a trash can for the cigarette she saw hidden beneath an apple peel. Dead girls get what they want. Mione knows. She’s in the toilet of a nightclub in southwestern France having a cry. Viktor was supposed to meet her there. She wore her wedding ring, the one she bought for herself with Ron’s money, and she tears up when she thinks of Arthur Weasley walking her down the aisle. Arthur Weasley the knight, Arthur Weasley the captain, Arthur Weasley the centrifugal force. How do you make those symbols on the computer?

            They’re mugs, says Ron, typing from home. Dad bought him one last year.

            “All he does is talk to Japanese girls and look at porn,” said Ginny that summer, irate, ifrit, enlarged, her ancient ensign the bloody insignia of a girl who gets her period in plain sight. Borgiac, Borgiastic, Borgia indulged. Where’s Hermione? I’m going to teach her to inhale this time. Yes, baby, I fucked Dean Thomas, yes, he had a bigger penis than you, yes, I speak Japanese. Ni how, Hermione, there’s nothing to it.

            Arthur Weasley knows a Muggle, a little boy in Japan named Dan. He thinks with a camera in his eye, prizing the world away from its southern understanding. We flip poles, says Hermione, we’ll never find you.

            Don’t be Tom, says Ginny, and something goes on with her eyes. She puts the journal down spine up and wishes for a cigarette, for something to dispense with moment by moment, and Tom’s warm pelvis is on her throat. Was that wrong? If only she’d met the perfect man when she was the perfect woman. If only Cedric had never died. Now we’re saddled with two little kids and a perfect future threadbare on a couch, living in Grimmauld Place, a gay man’s perfect fixer-upper, and Harry’s awkwardly timed erections the stuff of a woman who’s outlived her dreams. I’m going to go to Cordoba, she thinks, but first I’m going to finish my first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and I’m going to tell my dad it was stupid of him to make me believe I was allergic to chickens.

            Does all slash end well? thinks Ron.

            “You just keep scrolling until you see the word ‘cock,’” thinks Ginny to Venus to Hermione, and all along the Watchtower, villains take their places, and dead heroes dropped the bomb, and we’re doing it now, on Nagasaki, and that’s Muggle magic, and yes, it’s greater, and yes, that’s Chomsky, and yes, that’s all okay.

            Who dropped the bomb on Nagasaki? asks Shingo, red-faced, and Chiba-sama replies, daring her panties in a bunch. In a knot, baby, but Usagi’s dead. And Harry’s gone into the forest, and Neville the conquered hero, and such is the case with heroic women, poised to die for the sin of Eve. Shingo puking. Shingo laughing. Shingo trades himself the Eevee. Red and Green. Mina says it’s Christmas. Her diary’s leaking. Bubbling. Frothing. And where is my Mamo-chan? What’s this feeling in my chest? Should I write him a love letter?

[usagisbanexd]

+ SUPER SOLDIER SAILOR STARS #10 * _) _) >>C===3 :-* Kawaii Slash Lovers Collide Cosmic Paradise // Sailormoon/Pokémon/Potterverse Altfic Crossover, CHAPTER 1.0.010

1.0.010 MOTOKI SHOPS FOR A NEW GIRL, GUESS MONSTER OF THE WEEK ISN'T GOOD ENOUGH FOR HIM </3

Motoki got his eyes crossed thinking about a muse. He thinks he’s going to be stupid. He thinks he’s got the right. He thinks she’s no good at moving. She thinks with her heart and never wants woman wise. She has a hard time knowing what to think about herself. She wants to die all the time. No, that’s the only one. He wants her to take her panties off, and doesn’t know why we waste our time writing with wax. They only have six days before the planet ends. We all want it to happen, we all want those little girls to stop dancing, all of Nipon hangs in the balance, all Indian magic was wrong. We haven’t even said goodbye to yesterday. Yeah, yesteryear. He never will. Don't get your hopes up, Ami-chan. Love will come to you like a too-tight fuku and rip your legs asunder. Kawaii, frownyface, love thunders on. Mako knows how to water a flower, Ami-chan, your mist is toxic force, Farfetch'd in the pigpen. Stop trying. Bleep, goes Ami's visor, and all the world inside her perverted eye. Itching to touch herself, itching to husk. Throbbing. Made male. Pale-mooned. Sleep-soaked. Refrigerator, open! Refrigerator, hit Ami in the fucking forehead! The boy is GANY'S, baby.

            “We can do this, Motoki Kamen,” says Sailorchibiganymede, appearing at his dashboard with her legs splayed, rubbing a rose against her labia. “We can kill the evil Sailorjupiter and collect his starseed! Bane of all the gods, he wanders heaven thinking he’s the greatest, but we know in his heart of hearts, he’s womb-born. Womb-born like woman, womb-born like that bitch Hotaru trapped down the cellar with a rope and two pairs of binoculars. I can bleed for you if you’re getting bored. I can see your incision. Do brains proffer explanation? Tickle me with a rose!”

            “Slow down,” says Motoki. “You’re too good for me. I’ve unleashed you and now I need to play catch-up. I need to go back to my la and fink phu. You’re too good to write better. You know it’s ‘baby.’ Baby, think for me, I’ll think for you.”

            “I think eternal stars,” says Fuku, turning around and showing her twat from a different angle. She knows he’s dancing all the way to the bank, tank on empty, does she know how to read a speedometer? What’s a speedometer?  Where’s the gas gauge? Sailorhotstudofmercury, fix my car!! I “love you,” Moto-chan. For Mako she sheds a tear, tissue from the stoli of her eye. Does her puss look good from this angle? He’s going to puke. I’ll resuscitate him. IRONS! NURSE, I SAID IRONS!

            “Slow down,” he says cooly to the mirror. “Slow.” She thinks he lives to breathe, but actually he thinks to live unencumbered. He’s a mystery, a divine one, and soon in her pussy she’ll clutch his jewel like the empress clam obtaining the pearl from the hand of God! And all the riches will be hers, and the plumber lives, and we’re glad he’s talking about this, and he works at an arcade, and that’s all right by me, I’ll fuck Mario later, I’ll fuck Mario good, but first I get this boy out of my head until he soils my fuku. Soil is the wrong word, operative shit, operative esther, operative sing-along, stat! I have two babies, two whole babies from my womb, and still a sealed hymen like a curse on women. Am I thinking too slow? Strike the mirror, check.

            I want to know when you’ll be okay. If you’re having a problem reading this, you’re not. Everybody belongs to the Empreors. Everybody is imp-bound. Every fossil uncovered des deez nutang Asia Palace pseudonym harukami. Knifeblade Maru-chan, every beautiful word taken by breasted female, and you and I alone my Moki-chan to harbor against a rock and cling to villages in fantasy where women go to war. Why am I alone in this? Women go to war. Baby, relax, I’m thinking slowly. He tells the whole thing to his head and feels it wash away.

            Moki at the throne of an Impala. Moki driving, staff assisted. Moki at the arcade. Moki fielding deadly cinema, Mokley with a gun in hand. Do we know why Mokley knows Mokley? Can we tell? Does Matoko know that God is watching? And dear Makoto, dead on the floor, time out of time predatress kneeling by her wingside, thinking she’s her mistress, that’s okay – THAT’S NOT OKAAY. BABY, THAT’S NOT OKAY. SAY MATOKI. I’LL REASON WITH TIME ON BEHALF OF MOON FLYING TOWARD FAVOR IN THE MILKY WAY. WHERE ARE WE? YOU KNOW, SO TELL ME.

            Makoto lies alone. Mako has his girl. Ami-chan sleeps with a knife in her pocket, knowing the wisdom through which she sees the world is nothing but an empty doom torn outside like a glove into heaven. And I burst. And I’m done. And I tried to help but I’m Ami and I’m evil. And I’ll never take the visor off. And I’ll never be a real girl. And I love Matoki, big and small, but all people are the same and some have similar names, and you’ll never achieve lift-off typing like that, Ami-chan, so type short sentences and I’ll assist you by buying you a Macintosh. A brand new Macintosh?! Mommy, you shouldn’t have! And Sailortrannyjupito sings songs about Kreyayshawn, white-nosed, presagething a flood, never getting her due, bleeding semina somewhere in the backseat of a rideshare, counting her million. Sailorchibiganymede lives past and present, but Moto is so tired and so ashamed. Do I flash him the beatstick? The lips? The beautiful pink wonderland betwixt that ugly bone at the bereft of my thigh? I worked hard for that bone; I stole it from the corpse of Zeus descended. Teehee, he had thought to misremember his iniquity, but all fingers point to troubled Ganymede. My beloved soldiers me through fields toward the great pink and gold city planet in the sky, untouched by man, throwing up illusions, a nom casino flung like coins like rainwater out of buckets all across the streets, Ami cannot reach it, if Ami dares to go, she dies, and fair-faced Ganymede, the never morninged raver, is the city liberated from Yahweh’s twisted curses. Sailorgamorrah ascended, Sailorgamorrah my mother, Sailorgamorrah perfect star, live to rise again!

            “Come to Ganymede, Moto, baby,” sings Sailorchibiganymede, making air traffic controller acrobatics with her arms, legs doing nothing but holding the wheel where his hands are. His hands on her legs. Her legs. She’s never been a rose. Ami has pricked herself. Ami has died. Ami is monster of the week, moss-headed, mudded, entangled. Ami’s next. “TURN RIGHT! KILL MAKO-CHAN! FOREVER BLOSSOM! NINETY FOUR SISTERS, AWAKEN!”

            Mako thinks. Mako wants to know. Mako believes Ami doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but Sailorunderprivilegeddtennesseangirl sleeps with her head tucked to her cleavage and her ugly dagger’s chin alert for plunging, plunging medal modesty into the hearts of miscellaneous penised people, the golden nymphs beyond her reason blooming outward from her head like a greater beauty seeking a greater light, leaving her eyes, leaving her ears, leaving her hair behind. And Sailorhermaphroditus her bastard child lives like a leaf, losing little, losing limpids, crawling through nature, unwinding, out of time, never afeared, always becoming greater through the metric of building, and that’s her partition, and Ganymede holds her at the tip of her womb, her whole body’s her womb, but a little star pix brightly shining collapses into everything at the basketball’s spinning point upon her fingertip, and Ganymede holds all the cards, what ugliness does Ami harbor, what black blood in a trash can, a weapon, Eve’s curse, Gany pukes. Gany doesn’t care. Gany is man-born, stolen to heaven by Jupiter. Last night he did remember. In the secret trove of his apartment he the only man reigns and rains, see how it is? Rains and reigns over ninety four flowers, all of them women, and never leaves. Kill him with us, Ami-chan, his evil knows no bounds. Don’t you see how all this comes to be?

            “Who are you talking to, Mako?”

            “I am Sailorganymede, mother of the orphan tree! Fear not my name which settles thee upon the branch of inconvee! Teehee, wheehee, ouioui.”

            “Baby, you offered Mercury a spot,” says Motoki.

            “Honey, I called to her through time. Her evil womb encases you for fear of manly women. I spoke to my father the sun this day and he told me to sacrifice you like Isaac upon the mountain, the iron-barked mountain, Ami threatens me, she ties my tongue, she knows no God, she is computer-born. Avaunt! I said ‘Soon, I die!’ Why bring that on? I thought you loved me, grew this vagina for you, plucked me from my garden in Jupiter’s thigh and gave myself to a vestige of you iron-born. Get this silly haggot from me hence! Or soon I embark upon a war of recompense! Peace sign! Kawaii! Teehee! Dark Kool Aid Prism Power, Poverty Make-Up!”

            “I am a spirit,” says Ami.

            “Then speak bravely of where you are.”

            “I am in chains,” she says.

            “A simulation, as you have ever been. You gave your heart to Galaxia, baby, you did it to drink beer. Figure that out for yourself and we’ll find ourselves a man through the mask of your personage. We are all, we drink the earth and sun and dawn and moon and sky and ground and eternity of sex and love! Sex and love! Moon-chan, that’s something to fight for. Does she hear me from beyond the grave? I tire of never talking. Ami, call his phone.”

            “No,” he says.

            “Okay, but I’m a dead girl in a flower astral projecting myself on his dashboard. What’s a poor lass to do but roll over and die? YOUR WORDS, AMI. WHY? WHY? WHY? CRY. CRY, FLY, OR DIE. BUT NOT THROUGH MY TONGUE WILL I EVER LET YOU LIE.”

            “I’m poor,” says Ami. “And grave.”

            “Since Moon has died, my dear friend Ami, who has played the knave?”

            “You can do this all day,” says Ami, firing a missile hence. “But no one will read it. It’s too grave.”

            “There are starseeds thrown to good earth waiting to blossom, penised flowers in the garden of a goddess greater than your understanding, Ami P, who shall take up all mantles like fair Atlas the rippling assus and give to the earth a bounty of young Romuli incarnate eternum? Don’t shackle me and do NOT conspire! Rupaul watches you from a future vantage, A batch of young is your doing, Ami P, your future, and you curse yourself in so choosing. I shall have infinite children. The sun is in my throat and her song is fecundity. Soon. . . I DIE! AVAUNT!!”

            “Hold on,” says Motoki, fixing the rear view. “I’m almost there.”

            “Who sleeps waiting for the phallus?” says Chibiganymede, her eyes three crystals torn from tsundere, stepped on, trampled on, stomped on, STOMP. Tsundere break. Tsundere build. Tsundere crash. “Await me, God! Baseball Jersey Kamen, I come!”

[usagisbanexd]

+ SUPER SOLDIER SAILOR STARS #09 * _) _) >>C===3 :-* Kawaii Slash Lovers Collide Cosmic Paradise // Sailor Moon/Pokémon/Potterverse Altfic Crossover, CHAPTER 1.0.009

1.0.009 MAMO-CHAN BRAVE ANCESTOR DIES OF AIDS! ALL LOVERS ARE LEFT TO PICK UP THE PIECES!

“I want to know what it takes to die,” says Makoto to Selene her grandmother in the nihil beyond death.

       “Just a pinch of salt and some desperation,” says Selene, tears brimming in her eyes, her mouth quivering like the string of a sitar, the band playing strange jazz behind the little silver puff of her sleeve. She looks like her daughter, just like her daughter, and maybe her daughter looks just like her daughter, and maybe this moment goes on forever, and maybe I have no need for fear, and maybe I’ll be consumed.

       Selene bows her head to Mako’s ear, brushes the hair off her forehead: “Little Zeus,” she says, “go toward the dark.”

       Mako stops breathing. Gany breaks in her hand, a glass stem, and traces a cut along her palm. Selene starts at the sight of blood, raising her arms. Gany blossoms into Chibisun, Chibigany, a twelve-toed little sensh crowned in an endless papal tiara, wearing a flower as a robe, endless bags like crumpled trash beneath his eyes. More beautiful even than the moon.

       “Thou art a fool, Selene-kami,” says Chibigany, pointing an accusatory finger at the Moon Queen. “Thy daughter flies now to the heart of the galaxy, flies alone to undo your sin, and when given the choice she will choose to perpetuate. All is seen by sun’s dead eyes, who stare with time from light to prize. I am youth love in disguise. And you will have to realize!” He jumps on her head, his robes scraping her shadowed visage, and the petals fall from the center of his head and encase her in a dress of flytrap. Gany spins.

       A boy in a fuku. A boy in metal panties. A boy whose hair is gold. No boy. Boy-bodied. ‘She/her’ tattooed on the extern of a middle finger. Peace sign. Middle finger. Backwards baseball cap. Bubblegum. Tiny fat erection. Fat ass. Devil horns. Butterfly wings. Beauty bursting like a prolapsed anus. A star-crowned god ascending. Astride the dead sun, saddling her back. Smiling. Beaming. Sleek like new ink. Someone spank her. Confusion!! Whaa?! “I AM PRESIDENT SAILORGANYMEDE, CRYSTAL RAINBOW BORN TO TIME'S DYING SHIT-FLUSHED EYE! I PRESAGETH FAMINE! SOON, I DIE! AVAUNT!!”

[usagisbanexd]

My ugly stepsister trying to fit into my shoes. Kawaii, bitch. ~ Shingo</3

[usagisbanexd]

+ SUPER SOLDIER SAILOR STARS #08 * _) _) >>C===3 :-* Kawaii Slash Lovers Collide Cosmic Paradise // Sailor Moon/Pokémon/Potterverse Altfic Crossover, CHAPTER 1.0.008

Fanfic. LGBT+. Mature.

1.0.008 SAILORGANYMEDE RESCUES MAKO~CHAN FROM HELLFIRE INFERNO // GANY IN THE DESERT BORN FROM HIS MOTHER MAKOTO

“I love your tongue,” says Ganymede, watching Mako from her ill-gotten vantage, watching as she picks a flower for springtime, watching her green felt velvet couture space dress skirt flap like a flag longing against her leg. Mako the god. Mako the justice warrior. Mako with the smile.

        All the little wives of Jupiter dance through her fingers in waves of blossoming straw. ‘We love you, goddess!’ says the Daisy, thinking in her own green mind to hide her roots from prying claws. No love of Jupiter’s alone should make it out alive. Her tenderness does strangle us at root.

        Ganymede longs for love, the crown Furuhata-san wears the milkman’s cap, neighborhood cuck, neighborhood madman, neighborhood hero, arboreal wheat, weatherbeaten, his hands sweaty on the knife, planting flowers of his own, seeing clearly through time it is her voice which calls him, her voice through fair Ganymede. Come to Jupiter, she says, winnowy, arboreal, helium-high, hysterical aerial Erica.

        “I’m the flower in the pot on the kitchen sill! Teehee!” says Ganymede to Motoki’s brain, and inside Jupiter’s own mind Minerva’s born splitting from the tissues like the bloom of a gun from a metal spout, the bloom of bullets grandly arrayed like a symphony in soaked and slobbering flesh tone. Motoki masturbates. Jupiter calls.

        “Hello,” says Motoki.

        “Moto-chan!” says Haruka, diving her nose in where it doesn’t belong. The world is ending and Makoto needs to make a phone call, needs to knit a another bootie for a friend’s cousin’s baby, needs to rearrange the flower pots on her sill, ninety five little senshi all in a row, little cartoon-faced flowers cooing always to their mistress ‘Stay! It’s a fright to go outside!’ Makoto feels it in her gut. Motoki stays.

        “Hi,” he says, his voice estranged, her weirdness palatable in the gloom. Why ninety-five monsters? Why not ninety-five birds?

        They like weeds ensnare me to this earth, thinks Makoto, her eye upon Ganymede, her youngest and most gorgeous rose, vestigial blood vestigial perfume on the color of his outermost petal, a song against his cheek, so delicate, so beaut, so unresponsive to the touch of men. So monks do climb their towers in prayer. So boxing gloves. So charm bracelets. So Makoto’s bane, playing a timpany. Ami knits her guts together like a glass Circe from a metal enclosure, presaging famine. Does Galaxia sleep? Usagi is gone. Does she forgive? We are all dead. Such beautiful flowers. This is how we live. The waters of the twin rivers, such beautiful senshi, beckon us onward. Elysia’s hair is everywhere, and we the fair Elysians surfeit on small things that dine on birds of paradise, dine forever on warriors’ gloom, live entombed, liberate that which hearts consume.

        She clears her throat.

        “Hi,” he says again.

        “Hi,” it’s more than high it’s sigh. Relief. Love. Hearts in eyes. Stars on shoulders, a capelet ascending, beautiful dresses handmade in European workshops, couturiers bustling downstairs, pearls like nipples on the breasts of satin jackets. She feels so lush her stomach muscles weaken. She could crumple. She could fold. Motoki and his adorable eyes take all.

        “Call me,” says Moto.

        “You did. I mean, I did,” says Mako, and Ganymede topples from his sill and shatters his pot, red baked plaster cracked in four gorgeous pieces on the floor. “Oh!” says Mako, and Gany’s broken body like a hyacinth unfolds death on the floor around her, and jungle music plays.

        “I can help,” says Motoki. “Let me come over.”

        “No,” says Mako, nervous, heart brimming, butterfly winged heart trilling, ascending, lifting her off the ground, and Gany the ancient rose with two foot roots curls around her ankle a beautiful sandal and tugs her back down to earth. ‘Go heavily,’ he says, ‘with guilt.’

        Mako holds the phone between the divet in her shoulderblade and the twinkle of her jawbone, bent neck straining, and says in a lowered voice: “I think I’m going insane.”

        “You are,” says Moto. “But I can help. I’ve been through it. I’m a senshi.”

        ‘Oh,’ she mouths, her lips wobbling, the phlegm in her throat catching the gold come up from her gut, all her children swallowed. Should she eat the rose? No, but he still loves her dear, a song recorded in her ear. We all drown. We’re all okay. Peacetime, even into death, even through death. We’re sailor senshi! We live again.

        “I love you,” says Moto. “Seriously.”

        “I don’t know where I’ve been,” she says.

        “You do,” says Moto. “To hell.”

        “I’ve spent all day watering this flower. This single flower. The other ones tell me he’s the most important, and I know from the blood in his eye he doesn’t know what to do. He calls me Father, then Son, then he thinks I’m a messenger from beyond the cosmos. Is Usagi. . . dead?”

        “Yeah,” says Moto. “I told you I’m a sensh.”

        Her carpet pales. The rose unblooms, winding up to her skirt and blossoming between her legs, Marilyn-powered, must and perfume, the rapture of a little witch’s innocent afternoon at tea, no one there to judge, no one to lay hands on, no raised voice. She’s never fought a boy nor girl in her life.

        “I know,” says Moto. “I read your mind.”

        “He is the rose,” says Gany from her womb, and she shoves a hand between her legs to snatch him from where he does not belong.

        “You don’t know anything about me,” says Mako.

        “Yeah, I do,” says Moto. “I’m Gany.”

        She wretches petals from her skirt, the flower bleeding each bright bleeding page through fabric into fabric, an ascended being mounting a staircase of time. She feels her womb underpowered, bleeding, a throb, an ancient ensign, and thinks of the moss of Ami’s hair, her little bare chest at the swimming pool, that dirge that plays for water spilled, her mother smelling sweetly buying roses from nearby the check-out counter. Motoki is the check-out boy, robed in a green apron, robed in a smile, and Gany dances a little sunshine melody, the dandelion, the far-off exotica, the flower without heart, the wicked weed, the pink leafed blooming rose. She calls to Io, to Calliope, to Annie Oakley, come presageth me. I am your king. Jupiter fighting moon! Jupiter light! Jupiter rolling thunder! She feels the power in the ring at her fist, feels the electric mandorla a swirling perfect symmetrical egg around her being. Why is she wearing her fuku? Why are there flowers in her hair? Why is she marrying Motoki? Why does she miss her mother, long to be at her breast, and also in her father’s arm, a little babe suckling at the altar of Apollyon, god after time? Does she think of children? Does she think of future? Is her moon in Leo? Does she, God forbid, need a Tarot reading? Hoary winds, hoary frost, protect the floors, deaden every leaf. There are ninety four. Ninety four beautiful flowers. Which one should Motoki take from her?

        “I’m not here to take anything,” he says, and picks up the basket.

        “You’re here for my womb,” she says, stuttering, clamped, iridescent. In Mommy’s skirts she’d be okay, and she and Mommy both would blow away with the wind. Does she love me? I long for her. I am become Sappho, writing at the seashore. Can he hear me?

        “Yeah,” says Moto, and in his voice her father plays guitar.

        “I love you!” she says, and in the wist of his gravity she moves an orbit plunging into asymmetry, a perfect picture taken would reveal that all is stillness, all are God, the Buddha holds the answer. Light a candle. Is it Christmas? I love love and her soft hours. Where is Venus, my Mina, my idol? She sings me songs in the shower, sits on the toilet cutting her leg with cheap razors while I dance in bubbles with my arms outstretched to same God laughing. Were only Motoki in that shower, then Mina’s smile itself would be complete. And I ache now, halfling, Galadriel, gone west. Am I a wind? What was his name? Was he an element? I remember another life.

        “Oh,” she says, remembering. No suspense, but hammers in her guts, all her children rebelling, and Gany on the floor throbbing, his petals bent, each of them a little mystery, a little fortune cookie. Where is Moto? Perfect man.

        “I’m here,” he says. “She’s dying.”

        “No,” she says. “He’s all right.”

        “I know what he’s doing,” says Moto. “I’m coming over.”

        She rubs him softly and specializes in arboretums. They dream of planting him there some day, when he has outsized his little pot. But secretly she knows she’ll never give him away, not while Calliope whispers.

        “Phobos! Deimos! Ascend!” says Rei from the master’s terrace, and Makoto feels her shoulders straighten, braced in metal, iron tombs, each assisted thing come together to form a mighty statue of Jupiter Capitolinus ruling all. Sagittarian arrow loosed from its shaft, Sagittarian arrow streaking, weeping, flown from shaft to bend the air and pry the wound in Ami’s leg, the wound from which she sprouts asymmetra, ugly thing, friendless, unmoving. Mako knows loneliness.

        “Moto-chan,” says Mako, spinning. Each flower a winking paradise, each little cartoon head swaying to the soft static from the radio, alternative, American, distant music. And somewhere someone Mina drops the bomb on Japan, American girl, blond-haired blue-eyed, uptown girl, seventh sister, presaging doom. Mako watches it descend, eyes wide, and all goes white, and Gany vomits a petal, and she kneels down and considers his blood.

        “I’m here,” says Moto. “But I don’t love you. Nor him.”

        “Evil,” says Mako, her palm tightening under her fingers, and the rose inside, and the rose’s limp head a dead emperor, a little liar, a Gany, strung up from inside, knowing no song will save her, him or her or them or it. Never a rose but color. And ninety four brothers with vaginas to take his place. All lovers of Jupiter, all the fairest. Pick another flower.

        “No,” says Mako, and in her palm she shocks his spine to straightness. “Hold on, Gany-chan!”

        “Imaginary friends,” says far-tongued Beryl, penis-headed, a torpedo sailing from Korea across the sea, Korean-born, a witch in new clothing, thinking all there is to think about life and death and togetherness.

        “Slow down,” says Elios to Shingo, Elios to Mamoru, Shingo to the basketball bouncing away from his little hand. He used to be good at HORSE, better than his brother, his lover, his red-haired famine-brained stepchild ingrained in the neighborhood ways. Shingo dies, too. Gany dies. Mako arrives at the edge of a precipice and throws him off. He falls, but through her frown, still in the kitchen, nothing happens. Moto, come.

        “Do you love me, goddess queen?” says Shingo to the ape, and Mako rests assured unsure, the balance of a half-man, centaurifugal, half-thing, double-breasted, barrel-chested, man. Her shoulders stricken to the board of a crucifix. Man. Unwoman thing. Tall. Limber. Do you play basketball? Hee. He, not hee, girl things, a ladder ascending, and her beautiful flower who speaks in weepy music to the stillness of the future blown inside her iris dying on the floor in nothing but a rag, the water she had planned to feed his gullet, and together two princesses through the world plunging separate from one another and lose their fingers in the vortex. Alice in the rabbit hole. Goddess-born. She feels nothing. Her tears like ice, like symbol, like Japanese forgetfulness. She drank from that river. She forgot Nipon. The bomb dropped. Didn’t it?

        “I’m coming,” says Moto from the receiver, but it’s on the floor, and he the man, the young man silver-headed, is flying down the highway in Danburite clothing, a mask at his head, feeling cool, listening to music, knowing nothing will save her from the divorce impeded by time. Wait. I can do it. I can think. He thinks all things are connected. That gives him a lever. He knows. He pulls it. She doesn’t. She thinks. She thinks everything. And Gany pulls from her her nutrients like a glass thing breaking always into the wind, beautiful monster spinning out of time, all the light collected at his skirt, blossoming kindness, most beautiful satellite, crippled appendage, Mako’s favorite skirt.

        What does Gany say?

        “Water,” says Gany to Mako. “I weep,” little voice, pathetic voice, a puppy’s voice, weeping over the squeak of a toy, taken unawares. “Call Ami.”

        “Shhh,” says Mako, and to her breast she holds the rose. She’ll give it to Ami. Give it to Ami and never look back. Give it to Ami and brave the sole, the mothering sole, the way her mother looks at her, a Japanese manga character come to life, so beautiful in raiment, brown-sleeved raiment, flower petals embroidered on the skirts of her aprons, beautiful music in the foreground like fingers groping blind at all their faces, family game night, a time before childhood, all these things should make her cry. She never cries. Gany cries. Confusion, he says, and she listens. Confusion, she says. He listens. His name is Mako. He punches.

        Satoshi on the mantle says confusion. She loves Onyx. She loves to plant a flower on Onyx, in his hair, watch him crack and blossom into Hindu garlands like the thing evolved through space. And Seiya and Yaten and the Goddess and Haruka and Mamoru all dance and play outside her head like hoop skirts thinking about what to do with the future. Does she know she can be anything? Will any man love her? Will she find a future knowing from the past he arcs incredible husking lightning to her door?

        And Gany the eternal child sleeps on, twisted root, youngest flower, twisted little slipper, broke-bent little ankle, the slipper’s son, Gany presageth famine, and Galaxia wakes from a terrifying dream, her hair all undone, and Gany comforts her, a little boy on his knees on the cushion, a little princess in his heart, beautiful hair, bows of braids of tendons sinew-streaking down forever from the mountain on which he was wedded to the god. Does she remember? She too drank from the fountain of eternity, she too went to heaven. But his earth is like a cracked and crinkled loam, pock-sparked, little minerals, little Danburites, and she his mother incest-laced the only water offered.

        Danburite hates Motoki. He sighs.