What would you call the home which sits,
simple, in reverence of fiction, sits in reverence,
on two knees and a nose sniffing ***** bones?
What would you call a thing which makes,
a thing which creates meaning, much less,
than it ***** the meaning away?
The past ushers futures inside that my parents
made, and their parents made, and their parents,
it seems I'm younger than I think. B o r n,
i n t o a w o r l d o f d e t r i t u s . b o r n,
Happy. Happy. Happy.
My body will carry use
once I am dead. I
think I taste the dirt.
Happiness in head.
The likes of you I can't describe,
Yet I love to eat between your thighs.
The melody you spake to me
Unfolds my greatest sovereignty.
I crave to quaff all of your spit,
And swallow every drop of it.
Don't cheat me of your tasty flesh,
Those bare and supple ****** *******,
Your eyes that follow my firm gaze,
While we kiss and lick and misbehave.
I need to feel each piece of skin,
Smashing girl and boy parts over and over again.
It's such a treat to eat you whole;
I'm obsessed with eating 19-year-olds.
— The End —