…blood licking your thighs with the anger of the sound…brooks of dead life lap against your inner sides with hunger…there are dead-living poppies which drain on with the hunger of lunacy through the faces of your legs…it’s life falling away without liquefying the murderous flow of my yet-corrupted-by longing body’s wicked essence…runs viciously into my damaged entrails the golden liquid time cutting open the path and the duct…the tube deteriorates and I’m getting nearer to the end of the line with yearning fear…while you ignore the saliva that pours under the feet that walk you…
…It’s your perfect bum-in-tiny which screens the film…perfect shape of aware imperfection giving birth an another-age-like b/w movie…an age when beauty was love… and love was beautiful…there’s something in your thin, scrawny, goldfish body that makes me think of curves, voluptuous shapes, that breaks my gaze into a nonexistent infinite because I covet it…thou shalt not!…It’s your white substance lips what forces me to wish to be part of your body healed up under the drunken surgeon skill…it’s my blade which lovely cuts every E-Zone of your perfect skin…welcome to our jungle of hate, desperation & senseless sex…you perfect mother of my three daughters…Benvenuta al Girone dell’Antinferno…our three children hooked on the vicious void of their room cut their crystal veins with the apathy of repetition…
…hazy sexed shadows harass my own twisted sex…K-Perfect jerks me off for an intangible pain which got lost in any area of the night…Sugar sucks me brutally off while A.W. disregards what was created and the Factory is an empty and faded sorrow which fills with impenetrable semen before 50 coloured images which lose their essence as a bombed out Marilyn and her flow of pills spilling over the picture of her own bland decease… while Grace Kelly is high on H. & A-Bombs, your face keeps on in the serenity of elegance…ain’t no use in being someone just the main character of your own film…while I run my eyes over your back… perfect in her curvature and I observe, at last, my own exhausted sex…
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