he was on his knees, although the position was not of his preferred, most on the part of me that enjoys seeing it. just the fact of his dispostion settled wonderfully with me. he looked up at me, and there was a pain in his eyes, and he finally asked, "feels good, doesn't it?" and i looked down at him, and said, "i don't feel a thing."

plasma created light drips onto our heads, hot and careless, beating our way down the street on iron horses.

a varigated deficit prays and the pig and pen around the bend laughs out loud; the engrossed blood clot makes a truce with the surrounding advocates.

for example, a blithe spirit indicates that the wedge defined by the power in the underhandedly miserly human psyche is obtainable. sometimes the human meditates, but the deficit feeling dismisses any show of emotion.

now and then, a college-educated inferiority complex laughs and drinks all night with a skinny fruit cake. A pathetic blonde brainwashes an unsuspecting person of the male species, and i watch, longingly awaiting for such a feeling. any feeling, so i can atleast feel something.

a roller coaster toward a scythe, the people smiling and anticipating the feeling.

it has occurred to me, how persons of the dead are dressed up, and delicately placed into little coffins. placed into a little wrapper, like candy, awaiting their last bed.

a paternal tabloid caricatures a self-actualized tornado.

breathing heard just below the floorboards.
the sense of something terrible rousing itself from
from its torpor.

and then i've found the sad truth.

i want to be fucked

like an animal.