A current ran through his corpus, spongiosum to cavernosa, as the peak of her wet love language swathed the slit with electric spit, grateful smacks and French smooches, as he, flooding to the basest form of life, vibrated in the dual tone of “Ah!” and “Hoh!”, as from the grips of an incurable disease, felt his soul leave his body and into the mouth of his unholy sacrifice.
Why pussy fiend dreamed he blew a slew of hot wet steam supreme the woman of his dreams who bore the whore semblance of mothers rememberance was to cope with the wrecked rope his mother smothered her chocked neck with like she did his dick when he was just ten years old and still nobody knows and he often forgets to forget sufferings wet dreams so this morning he awakes from the pit of life’s secret mistakes.
In a dream, since always. Faint seeds of water picking at the indestructible glass of his window and leaving in its wake a portrait of a splattered young man over his bed by dimensions round, falling and smeared, tears blocked by years blocked hiding in his sock the crystal rock he will cock in his mouth through the pipe of dreams dreaming, since always.
A pitter patter batter pancake mix drips in drops on the splattered stove top burning fire from gas through wires and walls and tall doors separating maple wood floors from the kitchen and the red afghan spread opposite the ceiling chandelier dining room where it lays woven in intricate patterns scattered in symmetry, pancakes bubbling and burning imagery pussy feining and itching his scrotum before turning over the flap jacks on the stove top and eagerly waiting to eat pancakes and then jerk off up stairs where no one cares anymore besides no one occupies any of the floors anymore the place is haunted by friends whose names he didn’t know anymore and this was no home but a joke where he brings whores to choke and fuck and throw out like his pasty plastic plate covered in generic maple syrup and small pieces of crumbs and kerrygold butter what a summer it’s been so far, with dad so far, “I’ve been fucking like a pornstar” he says to himself oblivious to how worthless he feels himself not to mention the creeping suspicion on this whole business of Self because he’s had much better luck when he pretended a self to get what he wanted and he would do anything to get what he wanted as long as he was never questioned what he wanted for getting what he wanted was enough to hide from the fact that he never could or would understand why he wanted what he wanted, taking cues was how he figured how he wanted, on the internet with other people he was able to follow what he wanted and what he wanted was to get it but not to get it you see wanting wants because it cannot see and of all things deaf dumb and blind was pussy fiend.
He fucks when he hears a humming hovering about his ears, never gave a fuck about chasing girls, not at all, because it was eternally springtime if you lived near a high school, like that one right there, St. Francis High School of Pan Beach, an invention of the muses. He doesnt want to be a father, he just loves fucking young website whores and he pays well on websites so she will submit, in a room filled with meth smoke, to a kind of murder by insemination in which, like a spider, he pins her down on her back by her knees, entangles her arms behind her sweet scented hair, and stabs her repeatedly in a manic speed of inspired madness. Spun out of his mind, popping time, space domine. Pure pleasure. Abusive abundance. Uncodified not decaffinated, which is what he thinks the fathers and brothers of all those girls next door hated. Not in spite, but because of this he often stood shirtless and alone in the driveway of his home smoking a cigarette at sunset, four o clock shadow with some shades on because he is present parcel to a fabric of eternal camouflage, forever an agent to a secret unintelligence that on this day of judgment, as we bear no false witness, the body of his image taking the stand, today even his eyes will testify to the kind of espionage, libel and treason his soul is interlaced with, as many honest desires and false reasons could conclude. I testify. A lattice of struggling neural pathways hacked by the smoke of pipe dreams. He is a son of a bitch, and a bit more than that. You see for him it is terribly satisfying to be the one to break the stereotype, that a complete son of a bitch, a real dirty dog, can’t be the fluid of blooming nectarous catholic school girl’s wet dreams. And you know why? Because Mary Jane is tired of laying on this dirty couch of hers, she wants to be as close as physically possible and look you in the eye when she spills all of her secrets. Little does she know in his room it is he who will be doing all the spilling. She wasn’t ready to receive all this, not all at once, not now. Her eyes recoil into her mind. Now she makes a new secret, her fear will testify, she shuts off and goes away again. By the way. By the way. Why does she have all these relics around her mind- like this elf in exile with his midget wife, between this girl who looks like a younger version of herself, these formations of eternal clouds where God lay suspended in joy? What is happening? What is this magic? You like it? he says between heaves of breath collapsed over her shivering and defiled naked body. Her heart beats frantically while the rest of her remains like a corpse, a pool of still water surround her eye sockets, and her despondent stare, is she alive? What if I’m infected with something bad? If I have a transmitted disease will her mouth get infected too or just her pussy? he thinks to himself, because she did blow me beforehand. I wish I could die like this. Sobbing sniffs between young and beautiful slobs of the knob to unlocked cellar doors and offing yourself committing no mind to no law that could try one for it. Maybe I tore something. A whispering eye is a weak partner. But an open mouth? Nothing comes closer than Becky, a hand on her head, bless you child, hair smelling of rose gardens, damp, and it begins with a kiss, yes innocently, and it turns and turns, like a maid churning butter with her mouth, I can’t believe it, bobbing to bondage, oh baby, nodding off in devotion, slurp slurp, luscious lips and a ferocious lip grip polishing the monument of manhood, a tribute to man and all of him that will come, the criminal mastermind, executioner, labia locution, death by electrocution. The Fool. He sacrificed his life to it. He had his uniform, he had his post in the driveway, he took orders from a chain of command that descended to the hungriest of unknown generalities. It was his patriotic duty to go to battle, to defend his chauvinism, wherever they came from, because at the end the thing is this: war is always an end to this shit. So why not cut out the small talk and get to it, know what I mean? Exonerated laughter. End Scene.
The classroom was a speeding car. The child sat and listened to his mother. “To enjoy fucking, I need a hard on for at least thirty minutes of continuous thrusting. I need forty five minutes of penetration for a cervical orgasm.” She stopped after saying this to think of all the happy times she had just laid there like a corpse as she was thrusted over and over and over again by absentees and wondered how she came to feel pleasure from something like that. Never mind. Then she began to think of her husband, his father. Totally absent. She couldn’t remember the last time he gave her an orgasm. Business trips. “Your dad can’t do that anymore. I love a man who gets soaking wet with sweat from making love to me, and your dad is out of the picture. He doesn’t do anything for me anymore. I need forty five minutes of penetration for a cervical orgasm. Are you hard enough for that long? Can you enjoy pleasure without needing to stop? Are you present in your body and relaxed?” He stared at his mother, feeling as though to do her good and be honorable and listen, even if he could not understand all how she meant, he made do with what he could imagine with the little pornography he had been shown fluttering through his mind like an old time movie. “Yes”. His high voice confessed that he had only recently stopped bedwetting and that he was too young to realize that his mother was out of her mind. She began molesting him as soon as he was able to sustain an erection. She doted on him and they spent a lot of time together but it was no ones guess that she was initiating him into a secret world of her own destructive perversions. He listened with utter respect and programmed devotion to his mothers wicked mind spewing satanic sentences guised in the gauze of guidance. Do what thou wilt, that was her advice. Fully obeying his mothers council meant never obeying anyone but himself. Obey. Dont obey. Obey. Don’t obey. This was the primal contradiction, this was the beginning of what would weave a tangle of thorns growing between the process of words, thoughts, and actions, wounding and scarring every unfortunate person with whom he would cross paths. Let us indulge, from afar, the venomous adulteration boiling from this coral cauldron. She thought she was setting him free but she was, like a good devotee, initiating him in the rites and rituals of her own confusion. Nothing could convince her that her daily prescription was poison, even when it bade her own death. In the largest frame of her mausoleum she was providing to her son the only wish she had left; a wish for death. And what great expectation did this child expect from becoming mommy’s little monster? Mommy’s love, perhaps. In this triangle she set the black bar, a narcissistic machiavellian psychopath was what she demanded of her son if he were to be truly loved. She had been through her own initiation rites as a child and now she, in her own way, upheld tradition. In a smaller frame the picture remains just as frightening. He was her last victim. Although she had fantasized about taking him with her to the underworld, she was much more enthralled by the idea of a perfect little devil making havoc on the earth in her wake and, much more than that, she had perfected the fantasized suicide procession, finding through the dailies a much more agreeable white night alone, for memory defends that the happiest ends were spent alone. She fantasized a lot. Sometimes she wondered whether she should hold off her execution so that she could indulge, as she had fantasized, in the innocent genitalia of her fiends little friends who would sleep over during birthday and slumber party’s. She dreamed of becoming a high school teacher and coordinating an orgy with the varsity football team, but that was chucklingly far fetched. It was enough to be the teacher of one. In that way she was a professor in the dark arts and like most engaged in that consuming work she had nothing left of desire but death. Desire damned and dethroned by the dumbing demand for death. No she would kill herself but not before she had created a monster. She took to allowing her son to skip school and instead become indoctrinated in the ways of depravity. Alone together these forces conspired against this young impressionable boy seated in a cold luxury sports utility vehicle driving through a suburban neighborhood in hell.
Phantasmic sadness poured over her face as he leaned in to brush her lips entangled with the phantom kiss hovering over her secret lips pursed inside a tangled pair of silk pink panties. The worms of earth will have to wait long for this flesh to die. Perhaps she will be burned? Now she is but quiet fourteen, her parents qua parents somewhere irrelevant in the water park, ironically under constant surveillance, he can’t go back to jail, and no one see’s anything behind steel bars. In this cold wet space of sunny sadness he had to act, he had to do something, he could not allow the essence of presence that belonged to him conceal more regrets than pardons so he started, slowly by trapping her body in the squeeze of his debased embrace, fingers to untie, drop goes the string that tied her one piece and now she’s just a naked sacrifice at five feet four inches. On the wet concrete floor, to the sound of unimportant people and children going down water slides, SPLASH! She looked as she would were she waiting desperately on the toilet, a sad pain at a small rocket lodged in her the organ responsible for trusting a man ever again, strikes of grief against her wet body against concrete around sleeping steel, a drill pipe guilty of a shallow quarry weeping blood, crying inside of her, purging him self in portions of what was left of her self, totally pounded into sorry submission, now a tunnel for traveling through his saddest fantasies.
Just as the picture started it happened. Popcorn and cherry soda spilled over her white summer dress in the dark gaze of the seated cinema. A mess of flashing colors projecting onto a wet white prey, the prelude to a horror movie when everything is still unsuspiciously unthreatening, no, more so, beautiful, a very beautiful world, if only our first meals were our last a bard would say, but not a Bart, which is who young piggy brought, a brat, who merely batted his eyelashes and not once considered offering a helping hand because this was a different kind of horror flick where the acts of violence begin with crushing of her self esteem, like picking her up drunk or making her use her dads credit card to pay for movie tickets, humiliating her in front of an audience, summer birthday dress cherry soda drenched thirteen going on fourteen, panting and slowly dying as the gaze of anonymous sitters stab her sixty four frames per second, and canto fourteen seconds, leaving her hamstrung helpless and humiliated. Complicit with the gaze on the one hand and on the other unhelpful hand a firm clasp under her dress, reveling in her humiliation and awaiting to finally sit down and basque in the horror.
Resounding silence brooded over his bald abode like a halo repeatedly drawn from a desert well of memories hell fire fiercely hovering over his cone head in imperfect circles and ovals and ovaries ovulating the caw from whence came inside pyramidal stretches of suffering sky home to voluptuous vultures or kissing kites whichever insight cawing the motherfuck language of the nihils own suffering heaven for that was all his mothers had left him the virgin child a pain too sweet to memorize from a codex whose origins and meaning had only left his dunce faced reading beguiled.
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