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This is this shit.
Raving meat smudges of light, split spittle, intrinsic spit, the flashiness of invariants purging facets of euphonious wirelessness. Disentangled smudges droning on
into involuted discolorations,
a singularly sluggish schtick, tic's ticking, squealing, squeaking
inside the cracks in a hole, peeping entrails of
dead light buffing ampersands
of their lightest interoperability. Ambiguous sun night
dunking its meat in a swig of screaky sunset. I penetrate desultory
kisses being cauterized, displaced by dreaming curves, indented pubescent blurs on the brink of being
gnawed--tremulous convulsions my ass-- softer echoes of industrial waste. Nothing that is random is being rammed down my throat, or up my ass, ah-- incessant fading clouds of particles. Nothing is random, but
everything appears to be. What about slitting open the inevitable, sweating unlight, blasting any night resembling a name: sky of nails? Inexplicable
skins tight against the withering intensity of viscosity, non-existent wallowing, draining tentacles scattering unencumbered wings of gnats in between the unlaced eyes of my naked thighs: tummy shinny shone. Ambiguous meat
of morning, eyes' thighs, singularly smudged loins, lightest meat in the ravings of dead light loins, night loins' lights' lightest lightness dunked in light, dead smudges-- loins' light. --Bob BrueckL |
