Truth titillates the imagination far less than fiction. Marquis de Sade ....
I'm a lady killer sending her through the mirror of life like a kissing syringe in a ******* blood ritual with a long waiting list of arched glittering masochists eagerly she presents instruments of dispatch as she wanders into my mind like a drugged eyeball excited to be comforted by death
im making her wait not meaning to be rude stranded momentarily with so much filing, faxing, emailing, and calling in this cathedral of the taboo as i play with myself fascinated by a soap opera suicide
primping ready to lose herself in dizzying emancipation from a wrapped throat in sparkling battery cables and a tormented red mouth gasping tear glazed for the apocalypse of her depraved lust she caresses boa constrictor extremities that turn her brain to froth and lips numb
stroking her hair she dampens at the sight of rust tarnished daggers and a black fanged skull enticing swinging hips and open legs in the mood to bleed
a tantalizing appetite wetter ****** hors d'oeuvre served up like a crimson scar through snow she whispers how wet you make me
a sponge drenched moon while we have another coffee and tippy toe leg show flaunting her nails painted a different color like xylophone chromes she *****-ishly fingers the inside of her mouth and between moistened thighs while i finish the therapy reports of blow by blow depravities after watching Dark Corners Crazy ***** Films she says"Stupid girl. The moment the zip tie would tighten around my neck i would take my shirt and ******* off and go ******* in front of a mirror so i can enjoy the final moments"
i dress her in a fashionista silver skeleton bra stained ******* silk stockings and the body bag she so lovingly sewed together between finger ***** as if having already climbed inside
let me know your favorite room "bathrooms are hot" toilet head first please and leave my *** out to be admired for a state funeral *******
she was enveloped a blood stained **** dummy in reverie with a vacant grace, and red oozy kisses for a mob of ***** at the Gates of ***** begging for savage death rites knowing how pretty her pose with outstretched toes on a black palanquin she floats on tropical hemic Vaseline mesmerized whispering do you like me like this like that **** up banana split with a blood cherry yoni and a spoon of gruyere lick butter
look into my peepers kiss me tenderly lose control of your wet viscous whipping saliva tongue
then perforate the ****** pierce the **** open the intestine she quivers and spreads like Peking duck ransacking the brain editing the history from grave to spirit box she thundered like the burning bush cuming raw, jeweled and glowing roses
*** is a nexus of all things and not just the public version of it but those aspects of it that are beyond the language of the concrete *** plays out in all aspects of life to include history, epistemology, cultural norms and taboos, racism, politics, religion, social engineering, art, issues of gender, and all human relations We are all watching ****. Why should poetry be exempt, why shouldn't it shock and usurp the charade? Why shouldn't poetry bomb and smash the temples of normalcy, when so few of us are in actuality normal and finally catch up to the irreducible paraphiliac myriad of ecstatic distortions and erotomania What has shaped human history more than the power of lust and death?