Six-Second-Hand-Job

jess

 

Cute Japanese girl. English wallflower. Milky lover, sometimes a mother. Fear of water. Fear of wombs. Big eyes and cinema expectation. New York City on her vulva as the revolver in my hand glistens in the rain. Sweetness to ease the weakness as the moon sinks into the lake that drowned your sister. Rapists as frequent as the chime of a city clock. Despair in a phone booth as the bright lights shimmer twenty years into your childhood. Saturday night gothic. Cop killers and cracked windscreens as the vehicle goes up in flames in the suburbs you grew up in. 80’s virgin. Burning oil. So many lips against the howling winds we used as a soundtrack for fucking. 90’s adolescent despair. Handfuls of neon lovers in the midst of forgotten conquests. Be gentle. Be kind. Let me watch with infant fascination as your breasts bounce with every thrust of my hips. Let me reduce as if it were a formality. Let me lose myself in the portal to all things unreal. Dead tigers tumbling down sand dunes. Animal nitrate as Mollie’s body brings masturbation to the sound of war. Lactating bears and tribal scars from fingers to toes. Crimson lust. Mascara smeared from lip to chin. Purge the evil from her skull, and watch her sexuality sway without restraint. Take a shower, and make sure to rid yourself of the evidence. I’ve got a hunger for something exotic to wake me from this funk; a need to exert power over one who longs to be controlled. Poetry in the silence between acts. Possession to strip away the trace of others. Lover’s succumbed. Brunette. Blonde. Whatever.

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