Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Counting To A Million

I hate counting to a million.
The way constipation squeezes a carcass as a composite of shit-vibrations, as ornamental magma.
Rockets drip till morning.
I hate it.
Hard on my tits as despair’s voodoo swatches.
Tissues fit a lump of dust like a glove.
Butthole hate won’t exorcise a brown, softly vulgar head from the lawn’s animal hair.
Help my chunk flirt.
Raw brains refine and pump life into stuffed animals, as Jesus once motorized sleepwalking –
A monster once exclaimed – “Yeah, hold my cock – !
“I found the easiest exit wound.”
“Thumbnail coated in vagina acne, dread gnawing at jab pouches
Cuckolded by pure dong lining – shedding, popping when rubbing against penis acne.
Which then also pops.
Speaking in tongues won’t mask your laughter.
WHO THE FUCK AM I BONING!?
What is my cup of tea and what is an egg doing in it, splitting crime’s joint in a dungeon sealed by the morning’s urine lasers.
As orthodox rabies, home to the hug.

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