.as i was riding
i was writing
i was writhing.you are the female him /franticly trying to keep the pink spiked heels from perforating the time you spend on being me./the flesh and mind concern themselves with the
click click clack click
gold lame stillettos that prick and stick the bricks that line the upscale squares and common spaces of my rental mentality/. the sun warms my back and legs but does nothing to touch the frigidity in my groin even as i manicly masterbate unproductively/ who am i ? who is that woman man imp imposter that i picture going down on my shameful prick? he is so fascinating as she is fastining her masclinity that no one can resist the pull towards my morbid sexuality. it is like a dark moist toroid containing to the recollection that no one remembers the point of conception is the place where sex and death hex each other and the hate and lust debate and thrust my friends toward incarnatio carnations at our wedding to the igorant budda.
the geometry of fiction occurs to me as i decode the olfactory data that assults the atmosphere makes the sky cry like the factory that harvests onion products for the oblivious american to consume at some road side stand or some fictionally elegant elitist dining room /the clink of glassware and the scrape of fork on fine china invades my dreams as well as waking life / go ahead and discard the uneaten tenderloin of jesus christ a cow or a carrot into the trash compactor/ a special machine developed exclusively for the tourtoure of our tragic trash. help! the wires are frayed the inputs corrodid and sparking/ flames come leaping out of the grill like speed fiend bagpipers /yet this thing we are all riding in keeps chugging along and plowing the soil of common sense under the dust that blows away and clogs the pores of starving families
have a nice day.