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.
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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