The Shattered Glass of Afterthought

My reptiliac singed scrotum cowards into the tainted cave of dank tangled shame unbeknownst to the thick lantern gravity of this sorrowful sphere we call our Dream World Earth. Women here are aware of the amphibious structure of their own clammy orifice, and stuff it full of wheat and nickels to smuggle into the bathroom where the party begins without us Males. The derogatory phallus is a species of its own entirety, basking and drinking in its own conceited attraction. The thoughts that we recycle are brilliant in their own eye, like the pulpy translucent flesh of Her iris after she swallows my own. The color of the atmosphere is lost in swelling mouth from space, black with the void of extraterrestrial question marks. Where does ones thoughts go after the brain shuts down? Do they simply retire into the soil to be converted to mush and worm food?--or do they simply float back to the cloud in the ripening sky ?  

I have lost all capability to care. My third leg walks on its own foot, thinks with its own head. Spurting colors no eye can analyze or even begin to contemplate. The fibers of my swelling lust stretch to accommodate the leather glove of her own fishes mouth, her euphoric pinked out hole of Va's Gina. Where is there a care to spare? I put it in but there is already a pear inside. Whats that doing in there, Miss Baudelaire? Your smile ricochets off of my face and hits you hard in to optical fiber button, producing radioactive spasms in your pear pocket. Smoke issues and blinds but tugs like a queer hand into the chasm of your moist galaxy. Taste it, she says.  

"Not after you just queefed out 35 cents! I don't want that metal taste in my mouth, and I'm going to eat at Giuseppe's tonight." 

Well do something with it, she demands. Her demand isn't a suggestion in the air where it floats freely, unanswered, unriddled and Why don't I open a window darling? Even the birds can have a glimpse of the maniac characteristics of my depressive damaged trophy, a golden microcosmic statuette of salvation and secret sexy sin called Gina Bloom Baudelaire.  

I'm not in my right mind to attempt an escape right now. Phallusberg is awake, his eye blinks blindly but he can smell the salt in the water, can feel the pulse in the air, reverberating from her slimy core. Posters on the wall from things time swallowed already. Change the subject now.  

"Have you ever thought of redecorating? Its awfully, hmm, early 90's in here." 

Again the demand to feast coils from her tongue and the hand of Her forces my Head down into the jungle free from tangled string and chord and abundant in falling fruit.  

"I have to ask about the purpose of the pear." 

Tomorrow in the morning I brush my teeth and scrape the remnants of yesterdays dinner from my mouth. It be a cleanse of the acidic pulp from the mouth in between her thighs, the lustful organ she refers to as  Little Gina. Oh, for crying out loud. I brush away in hopeless despair and not even the bristles can rid of the lodged pear.  

Following the orgasm of the future, her breath not even expired from her Lips (down there), her heat scented words folly an image of doom in my mind. What if these sin-packed activities of Mid Moon Night render me a Father? Who is to blame? Phallusberg thinks with his own mind, he spits with his own tongue but it is I who entered him in the dance competition. It was I who shoved him in the donkeys eye, pink with saliva from mid morning drools. But it was her who forced me down. Down there in the desert of nothing but her pink sand, and every so often a rock, a pretty little plain rock to distract you from the mindless humps of existence, I and myself only flip the rock over to see if there is any bugs underneath but there is only more sand. And right as I pulled out, tongue swollen, Phallus tearing at the eye, the sand sprayed a gaseous hiss upon my very sight of realization. What have I gotten myself into! What will I get myself into next? 

The jewels of yesterday shine before my third eye, optics developed before my current body even existed. I can see how harsh the sun can be if you lied to the moon. 

I recall the events from the previous evening as I gander around, lolly gaggin' thru the streets.   I feel like writing a poem. In the Starbucks bathroom shitter I write this poem: 

The shattered glass of afterthought 

Rendering the sun to rot 

Before your very eye 

All of their heads turned to the sky 

I was lost, O sweet lost 

Face first in a cream pie 

And all through o the Nigh', 

I looked thru one eye 

Into a galaxy  

Of cherry pies 

Why? 

Continuous script in the monologue of silent span of awareness, why not go insane in the process of deteriorating your phallus in a cheese grinder? Of course, that is the answer to every problem that exists. Take away the need for sex, and focus on the essential values of life, like tobacco smoking in old pipes, and eating magnificent steaks of crimson origin, and driving fast cars on the verge of dying by your own hand (foot at the pedal) on the wheel of hasteyhasteyhastey death. But O how f*****g splendid it is to travel at inhuman speeds, projecting yourself in and out of the glands of society, like a speeding phallus into a county Vagina, what thus thou art doth f**k f**k f**k a duck d****t Dennis How the Hell are You? 

"You know I am just peachy splendid, Maks, Your really a terrible person to talk to tho, and, well, if I didn't have to take a s**t right now Id stay to bullshit with you about p***y and the World Series and s**t,"

"Oh s**t, you saw the game?" 

"Yes, I was at the last game. I saw everything."  

"You son of a b***h. Well it was noice (at that moment I realize that Dennis is going to see the poem I wrote in the bathroom, and, after having spent all of college in the same dorm room, and copying papers and such s**t--Dennis has gain recognition of my handwriting, and he will note that Indeed it was I who wrote that poem for no sane purpose at all) talking to ya, brah!" 

He nods and turns to go take a s**t and I giggle to myself as he leaves.  

O silent memory 

Please do not fade 

I need your presence  

Even if it is but a fog 

Uouka Jenkins is a military boy of about thirty who lives on my floor and has Sex with Gina every other weekend. Ive known about it for, haha, F**k,  I Dunno...A year? And then I started the grape medication. F*****g red all day everyday and cold into the nights, where the only thing that could warm you was another bottle of RED, O how divine the red was to the soil of the soul, how thankful I become every time I drive past a vast vine of grape emerging from the sod in stalks like a fruity crop from the Holy Skies above.  

After the crash of the Virgin Space Shuttle happened, I went into a slow relapse into the dark void of my own self, becoming stranded in the chocolate void of memory.  The brunette bought us two tickets, one for her and one for me of course. This was the only thing that kept me waking up in the morning, that kept me moving thru out life at interstellar speeds, just to one moment in the nearing present (future?) be in the God-Questioning Void of Space and the Dimensions of the Incomprehensible. And then when I saw on GoodMorningFuckingAmerica that it crashed, that it was over--f*****g over!-- or at least delayed for another two or three years for precautionary tests and what the f**k not... 

The incandescent vision of here and now is existent amongst the luminous breasts of warm friend and silent memory Mara (Gina's sister) who, long ago, sought a remission of retired friendship, a withdrawal from our coffee scented love affair -- with Tea Smoke flowing in the air, a ghostly presence in my mind. I can not even remember her face, only the flow of color from her hair into my eyes, forever tainting my soul.  

I go back to Gina's place on Market Street after eating at Giuseppe's. She is being a b***h again. 

Author's Note

"Nakas souija bodittsativa."
--John Travolta

Reviews

[Jeannette Lunete]

Enchanting work. Well done!

[Laura Lynn]

You are a really good writer. It takes a lot of concentration to write sometimes. There is so much to write about. What happens with this romance, what does happen next, what will?

[Chadvonswan]

I really appreciate your tribute. . . And this romance has an infinitude of possible next happenings, all unwritten but all in secret existence.

[ZackOfBridge]

You have done well with this one. This one is more solid than the previous pieces, though those were good too, but this one is you taking control of your style and voice. You make phallus a poetic word, Sigmund Freud would be proud.

[Chadvonswan]

Hey thanks bud! This was something I started typing out on my phone just cause I was bored as s**t, and I ended up writing this madness haha