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.
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