Choking on a Limp Stalk

The fault in your fault line is bolstering of fracture and trash. Trashy exposure of my nether regions, the fleshy blue and black death stick ready to finger cuff another one into the bind.

Grab a hold of my joy stick I proclaim; touch me in the way I want you to do so. Shove me down your throat, and choke on my external sore. Puss and soil fill your mouth, glug … glug … chug.

Don’t you love this? Don’t you want to be with me always? The eyes glaze with a lacking humanity, a tender life extending its appendages for rescue.

Be my spectacle and let me own your nudity; you are my raw disciple. The rump of dead sensuality, I bleak release into the stripped parade.

I mush the limp stalk further into your bosom. Glug, glug, chug.

Polished Plug

The fits are fitting, face palming the constant expectation of demeanor. Point they do, but thrive they don’t. They. They? They! 

Take her soils and exude the backwash through your hands. Hold me, or hold her. Hold us, while you salvage this life. Her discount was your sale, but the sail left your hope in fruit’s door. 

Now your ask is of salvation. Excrete your nature to grow her garden, in her garden. As the different parallels divide, the not established seed bears no grandiose. 

It’s a barren effort; the failure of expectation. The pits of yesterday’s laundry, smother all which you covet. Fill me and guide me, so I can release my bind. 

There is nothing their but fits of depression. Expectations to breath in clouds of carbon monoxide, failing through your own plugged pipe.