3 Mar 2008

My Version of Semen

An electronic clench, we seized lunar minds too young to soap our sex. The whirling of meat placated, writing as thunder. Zero was blasted into your exposed bathing haunt, reams both archaic and warm to dampened strings. Spasm, a tossed floorboard around calculus. Barking grey identifies what was said beneath slapping her buttocks on the cusp of nine. A sickened cardinal praxis lifts its digital cheek to the divine secreted in a green bottle, awed streets cutaneous in their abstraction. Thought lost in time, easy on the ovoid twos for lurching after the suddenly communist in the air. A little dub piped in with your morning amphetamines. Fat explodes, saunters by without its religion, and camels begin speaking of occult secrets to the gated bourgeoisie. Applied isometrics will expose the float of her soft, radioactive streaks of vulva, a bold line of procreating orange. Tribal beats come wrapped in blue, crying personnel and their corrupt lawyers. Someone had to intervene in the documented bending what you've got. It sometimes takes twelve steps backwards to taste the kiss of random outsides, what could be referred to as you being dreamt by my version of semen. Teeth that refuse to grow out of your left ventricle, unanswered cries for help, for a jagged cigarette lisp. Dashed permutations that imagine themselves as captives on a balloon world, crisp dollar-bills that soak in uterine vowels to become a billion, maybe even a trillion, dusty plateaus in your eyes. Only dashboard blood remained to testify about the walking shards of wreckage and behavioural heat, shocked peals of biodata poked at by her amorous hook, line and sinker. All memories transmit traces of their addiction to machines that reek of their will to power, severed legs painted hastily on palimpsest tiles, an emaciated grind into the secular as murder races vanity to rapturous heights. Lips know instinctively how to emit sparks when dissonant chords manage to break the flesh barrier. Swords inscribe their alien aesthetics, it's all an island anyway, a repetitious charge that only wants to be an immaculate bridge to the pastoral moments buried deeply in the mechancial psyche. I'd really like to shrink and be tossed into your heavy longitude, a spray from the sky that feels like a sweet kiss on my inner wrists. Rain refused to bounce, an ineluctable echo that should really be criminal on a scale of one to ninety-eight point three. Have your cells call my cells, and ignore the testimony of the experts!

4 comments:

cocaine jesus said...

Back with a bang!

cocaine jesus said...

and no, that is not a come on!

:-)

Robert said...

LMAO!!!

Aaron Held said...

uww psycho-delic

i like!