Tuesday, January 19, 2016

the evil turn.

i'll have you know that i'm an orifice of satans', if not the only one. i stand behind plaster you stand in front of staring ahead of yourself. the smell of my sweat cannot be beat. you stand in front of the wall staring straight ahead as well, sneaking out the window, crawling toward desire.
i said to you, in your unconscious mind, don't you think i might know what cruelty looks like? think what you want but you cannot fuck with me.
you ask me how this happened and how come? well, i was sixteen as usual, and i was so bored that i sold my soul. i sold my soul! i was really so fucking bored that i prayed to satan and i said satan give me your dirtiest fucking work. all it cost was my soul- funny thing is that i thought it would cost many souls.
things happened this way because i was bored with my generation and its beliefs about what right and wrong and good and bad are i don't trust it. and i couldn't think of anything else to do. i said i couldn't think of anything other than opening the window to the light of the world. that's what i knew how to dothe light of the world threw itself into my body. i became the light of the whole fucking world, and you want to lick every drip of my old self that begins to do so. it's fucking juicy. juicy like tree sap. juicy like a ripe honeysuckle. juicy like the dew on the edge of a blade of grass.
i cannot shake thoughts of the desert- i think about it all day. i think of being alone in disgrace. i think of fucking the man who believed he could steal my pussy. we fucked all day to release our frustrations; to take shit out on one another.
i think of the things i've given and how what it is they give is pain. i want to believe a million things are happening at once; i believe i am a mother and the fucking anti-christ and every other type of person. i tear off one tit and i pass it to the next girl in line, someone just like me, except she doesn't have any tits at all. maggots eat away at her chest torn open. crud is all crusted up along the edges of former dead places, taking up half of the life form, yes. but no tits at all. this girl is the girl in me that's not fit to marry. she's got an injury. it seems you, too, have got an injury. the traffic is backed up because people are crawling toward the same disaster- been growing out of the sidewalk. shithole looks like it would hurt like hell to be broken by.
this injury looked like someone screaming loudly and hurting like hell. this man and all of the people all meant for their crawling toward disaster to reach a pathetic place. people are desperate. this is the new trails of tears. the people want their fucking injuries. they want them to hurt like hell, for they couldn't find a name of god. innocence is not blind so its eyes get poked out with forks. it had it coming. we take the eyes and we step on them, squish them. we're going to kill him so he would shut-up. the man now without eyes is dead because he always had something to say.
innocence is not blind because it knows exactly when to kill itself. the perfect moment.
that's the problem with everyone else.

it was desperation to continue crawling that left this man sick with thirst for desire, for pleasure, for another dick down his throat, for a pussy smothering his lips, the fat of a girl's ass in his hands.

as he was dying he requested his mouth be filled with sand from a desert.