Nobody uses me anymore.
She lets arak pool beneath her tongue.
I wish I had a dick.
For her candid thoughts she dressed in & of lace.
The family owned a brothel of
stairwells, lined with pricks and twats in pale pastel.
If I did, I’d fuck in the ass with it.
Their prime customers were the staunch believers,
In all black, felt hats and overcoats.
They’d leave in a glaze of sweat, its tang quickly
mixing in the air as each passed.
.
It’s a headache premixing sin, as
its tit-zany vale geese quickly nag. What dale of
elk? A vast cabin of cold rats then
pierce trust, shiver below a cummer’s sheen & tire.
I did fist fuck. I wished it all.
Twin petals and a prick plastered stale. Within swills
a lonely whim. A robed theft of
grace & she descended. A sourish thorn of filth,
His kiwi had acid.
Lethe opal tears hung beneath the kooter.
My bed, a sonorous enemy.
About the Creator
Sean
A lover of soft cheese and delayed gratification. I prefer plants to people, more often than not. Dirt is my medicine and filth a form of therapy. Most of these words should find a home among compost but hey, at least I'm still writing.
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