Gay And Inappropriate

Just sex. Winning everything, and then losing it. Like inspiration, traced through its chain. Go ahead and jeer with your pitchforks as somewhere along the line, the miserable machine deciphering its processing and the heat and cum on the floor that starts to spider onto feet and crawl up my leg, it fades.

Escape artists are no fun everyone knows, and I’m nowhere close to the shape of an artist because I can sleep at night. And everyone knows that every good artist everywhere states simply before starting his latest work “I couldn’t sleep so then I…”

And I keep waking up unknowing. I know that well, some loon bottled me inside one with it. Bottled up with unknowing shouldn’t that be funny.

No. It calls for isolation. Do you think isolation is funny?

We are more that high-calibre mammals; we touch each other in different ways. We take pleasure in it, mangled and lynched, art and love has to be close to home and close to tragedy. Gay?

Awfully I know.

“Kinda, Probably, maybe.”

That answer required tedious preparation, on a rock. Sat Athesiac. He didn’t turn to face Christisiac as he said it.

“Well maybe you should look into it.”

That push for a friend to paddle in the right direction, required an immense love and caring.

“Maybe I will.”

That lie was easy.

Blue hair. Shakespeare had blue hair, was an absolute radical. But grainy black and white photos and dubious scholars shielded it from the public.

Athiesiac easily fell in love with a blue-haired girl. So long as it wasn’t their natural colour. Corny?

I for one certainly think so.

Author's Note

I am beautiful and you can never touch me