by smealek

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.

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