Guilt Trip

When you milk the street dry, all that's left is a husk of tattered lampshades. Those fucking nightshades, just give it a clean erase. Vendor bended hubcaps call the tailgate a chaser like a skirt or a shot. And what's left? a shallow memory of a negative connotation? That's masturbation.

If I'm a victim then please, proselytize me. Wait my turn in the line, no I won't do any time. "Get the fuck out of here you fucked cannibals!" She won't take my yes for a no like I tried to make it. Hesitant misplacement, uncommon creation. Malfeasance ensured by a buckle on his shoe on his ass split wide. This place is on fucking fire with apathy all dolled up pretty like some cherry advertisement for lipsticksmear and embercigarette and stockingrun. Stock market droppings, some vicious whore with blazing computer blinking lips stick stuck maw a-gape. What flavour is this, she enquired with tears wet in her ears, I can't make out the signals.

Kept my heart in a vase, she did. Released a binary mitigation to consternated lullaby-fucks all closetwide and slavering. Trying not to make eye contact with the freaks, she is, for fear the inverse idiot will call her normalcy out on a shivering limb. Corpuscle Christ, cadaver canon. Eliminate the inebriate: this forest what we salvage on bent knees is treed with crucifixes and everybody's fucking.

"Have you ever had nothing better to do than stare at a wall and imagine grabbing yourself by the collar and crushing your face into a mirror," she whispered with cold sultry abandon. "Just thinking of your nerves grinding fucked shards, punctured eye socket dripping cum and rust, slamming your arms hands legs until mashed to a precise, nice apeslime of pulp and slaughtered lambsdown."

My lover, Oh Rose With Thorns, sweet triskaidecaphilia-faced angel. I stole these flowers for you. They're laced together with floaters plucked quietly off the lens of mine left eye.