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I got the new Victoria's Secret catalog today. The one where the young woman on the cover

arches her back, places both hands on the back of her head, bends her long neck at two oclock

and pokes out her pink lips as if Christmas was being kissed again. Where the spruce, adorned with

silver tinsel, drops those evergreen thorns on the carpet and you catch hell getting them to leave

 

and it's December 23 again. Another year has passed us by and you still find them in corners

or cornflakes and you swear off live anything again, especially trees, just kisses from photoshoped

girls in bras and panties, from whatever angle, in heaven perhaps where Jesus can supervise

your every yoga move and there is little danger of you pulling something out of whack.

 

Just places to sit made of gold with the same coterminous boundaries of my daughters mother,

who I prayed and prayed would be in hell for the way she talked to me in 98, but someone let her

in anyway and now i'm pissed off by this whole cosmic-string thing of  astronomical objects in

early formulated universes where bad people, posing as good people, disguised as capable

 

people cover themselves with human hair wigs made from real angels two million light years away.

Springs hottest fashions has arrived with a free cotton panty and a darling demi push up morning

of scarlet flowers with each breast indented with a V, used as a victory salute or a gesture of

approval. Yet, there is no documented evidence, none, that you can get your thigh in that

 

when the largest size is 12. So unless you swallowed one of those African polytheistic spells

you couldn't fit in that in outer space where gravity is zero and you eat your pudding and

chocolate cake out of the tubes you squeeze with gratitude and devotion. Not the hunger

that you have like a brown bear on the loose after four months of good sleep. And you

 

didn't crave akai berry anything, just meat and potatoes and hot sauce and Kool Aid sweetened

as if sugar cane was endangered. And when your Vulcan wrists blot out fire

or soothe the solar system with your votary musk, I too will flip thru the shiny pages

pretending not to look, racing, racing merclessly,

to the end.

Reviews

[Corset]

rotflmao, oh you horrible horrible man, what would I ever do without you? One more crack about my thighs and I will crack your head between them like a ripe walnut..kisses xxxxx