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meow
Kitten baby. All sparkles and gems. Lying on your back like a golden soft dream. Tendrils caress her soft breasts. Her nails reach out to me and scratch. Ecstasy is an itch waiting to be scratched.
employees
Slaves. Bludgeoned with the axe. A fist of iron another of steel. My dreams came in a packet of lucky strikes and the will to hold my daughter with hands untarnished. I work to feed and prosper. The old fella at the top, he smokes off my dreams.
arts
Life.
dysfunctional
Yes, you. The one with the big hair who parented me. You & this lousy dipshit clone society we relegate ourselves to, amid crunches of cheerios & forgotten dreams. Once upon a time there was a cave then someone drew a bison on it & a fire crackled, smelling still of earth.
harness
Here she was strapped in like a leopard. Her teeth gnashed and her fingers turned white at the ends from grasping the leather so tightly. Good thing she had crimson-coloured nail polish, Chanel "Fire" on. She knew what she was doing but the anticipation had evolved into a deeper, darker desire at this point.
insect
Spindle legs like threads. You are not the sacred beetle, there is no mythic word for you, you do not roll the sun, you roll a mound of shit. You are, taxonomic creature. Truth is, to me you, are never an insect, but a god unto yourself, replete
primitive
Ivory against bone bears the same density. Marrow is a crippling thing when considered the milky, brown essence of everything. Funny how they say we're all made of stardust--simple--when all we are and ever were are running forms on a distant field.
tasting
Every little cell bubbled forward, raising an erect globular head to the sky beyond the cavern. "Yes, us please. Let it cool our head-tops, tingle our bottoms and let us be pretentious little taste buds lapping at the veritable honey of pollen hidden in this, this ambrosial nectar". Little did the tastebuds know - they were rather ironically drowning in a mouth-full of rootbeer float.
tasting
Every little cell bubbled forward, raising an erect globular head to the sky beyond the cavern. "Yes, us please". Let it cool our head-tops, tingle our bottoms and let us be pretentious little taste buds lapping at the veritable honey of pollen hidden in this, this ambrosial nectar. Little did the tastebuds know - they were rather ironically drowning in a mouth-full of a rootbeer float.
sliver
Chard, glass, piece of self left on the "identity pile or puddle". We call this a tribe but it forsakes its young too early. It doesn't let us live enough. And I find myself snatching at meaning behind words via this electro-forum. This passage that could be no less hauntingly dangerous than beautiful young man standing on the edge of a barge.
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