Undress her until she is bouncing: like the daddy who held her when she wasn’t a little tool to play with. Look at those happy, little developments of hers, juggle, and juggling unashamedly–but they never have… All across your face–how many have you seen already? After a while is it old; is it new–fucking breasts again. Do not disturb the erect, you, that wants to well up inside, and bloody up, and engorge all of the resentment pent up inside. Do you feel big? Does she feel small to you? Did you know she’s handled bigger, and much smaller. No fear. Hear that music chime in–that is your pride–and so, now ready yourself, and mount. Or, perhaps, let her mount. It is going to be a good ride–you better last. Do not give up on me. You are weak, suddenly after a few, you grow a new set of… Sweating. Be ready to enter. Enter! A land of pleasure, but my friend, make sure her cram comes–oh how it comes–well, before yours.
The fool’s gold rushes down the used throat, and hers, and is it supposed to cleanse some ridiculous bad thought–fantasy of yours. But all that travels is the bad night(s) that will not be easily erased just with the sipping of the good old cask–and glasses clink again. Flush it down. Now, kick it. Fall down, and don’t worry. Let the bucket roll down, the floor, while the nasty and hopeful crawl; disturb the skin; you’re skin– do you feel that restlessness. Restless leg syndrome. The babe crawls on top of you–hahha, fuck her well. Now, let’s begin again, the itch is back; the fix needs to be found again; the love needs to find the vein and crawl up and down again. Again! Oh how good does it feel: to be immortal knowing it’s okay to die; knowing it’s okay to be alive; knowing it’s okay to drop loads in her filthy hole. Fearless. The power is in there, look down on the hairy, big boy. Use your nose holes too. Below you: look down on her hairy, filthy mess. That’s where you dispense. Feel at ease. That’s where the answers may all–lie to you. Right there with your big toy. Stroke your pride well, and binge her well.
Strum music of bitter sweets, such as the chocolate messily melted on the insides of your cheeks with all the slime covering the vocal strings. It was so sweet, but now it is disgusting just like the pleasured seed that spilled after a good night ruckus. What was the reason of it to start with? Sure, it was a fantastic treat, and boy, was it nostalgic, but now it is just a scarring of the palette. Wipe that tongue, it is time to spoil the tastebuds with a brand new sin: perhaps something a bit more sweet to spoil the teeth; perhaps something that will itch the skin. Let it rinse and repeat, soil everything inside of the body—soiled again, nice and dirty—this instance feels like the crawling infant. Dirty with glory! Hahahaha, how brilliant and still the child crawls towards this infinite purposelessness. What is the motive? What!? Is it trying to learn something? To crawl to walk, and then to stand, and read, and find shelter, and make a family, and to just rinse and repeat with a new little toilet hugger on the way? It will just dispel the same jargon all over again, and it will be flushed down that hollowed seat. See, there is nothing unique here.
sit next to a bountiful bush
do not touch; do not stare, all of these desires
you cannot claim, because this bush and hairs and
fetish with a ness you cannot have— you
cannot claim or mark this territory.
Let the bush grow and get
hair crawling around its secret treasured opening
while it secretes all of its messiness with
a hungered appetite you would like to spill and
try well over, but just sit there and stare
like a good white mare, and messy by your lonesome stead’.
Spill my good boy,
Spill it well.