There is insincerity in my electric praise, regardless of response I drip cool pools of soft cloth on floor and utter abstruse succulent phrases. Even with all this, I am insipid in lending lip service to ***. I absently inhale acrid smoke because I never pretended to be a hermetic socialite- because it is a socially acceptable form of self hatred.
Obsessive animality has become disinterested sexuality, I have done anything ever asking "what then?" and everything done: has me **** in the eyes of men. Gleaming ideals of ******* girl, feverish licking, slick sweat dripping and all this boredom: the initiated subjects of whoredom come undone with the gripping of slippery moans and now lay soiled in sheets where hearts beat fast, striving hard, deep in keeping the motions of man. We are stripping off flakes of soft humanity, which we feed each other to watch it melt on the tongue.
So very unlike writing, *** is hard wired, it needn't be learned- only practiced with intent for perfection and when the edges bleed together within the edacious mind, all is bared unclothing only sloven swine. The truth is: I only deal with shadows and align them in a malignant play of poetic puppetry. I outline a silver coated tongue seen to deliver elaborate loquacious lies, I **** deep at cultural control and I huff full lungs of the social soul.