my brain feels like it needs fiber, like it is constipated, like it needs a vowel movement

there is so much thunder but no lightning

noise but no illumination

crashes and collisions but nothing makes it real

my heart thunders like a stallion broken free and racing through the night

or some other overly masculine sexual metaphor or simile

more fucking words

is this what it feels like? did I rumble and tumble and accidentally lose myself in the currents of this white water rapids with no boat or oar

why can I never get her face out of my mind even when I slam my head into the wall over and over and over

banana spiders and bloody chinchillas being slowly fed into an anaconda ball

I feel like a contradiction, an abstract notion, a paradox

undefined often denied, subtly decried, beguiled reviled and defiled

take your expectations of me and shove them up the collective ass of the holy order of crimson flame

order of the golden dawn, the biggest sigh the most dramatic yawn

take a bite of the golden apple of dischordia and watch the ground drop out from beneathe you

I am beneathe you

groveling at your pretty little toes for a moment of pure unrestrained bliss

begging to love you while trying to maintain that same demeanor of a doctor about to give bad news, or the family about to receive it, or the person on the bed being spoken of

it is confusing

imagine a circle has four sides, but is not a square, it is still a circle but not

I am a squircle

I want to beg you to jump into the ice blue flames with me, to swim through this scary new place

dip a toe in the shallow end

I only know how to dive

but at an awkward angle, not quite right on, is that a sand bar that is a sand bar landing with a broken neck and paralyzed of the dick and balls

just desensitized

a light tingle

if you feel a tingle in your dingle make sure to swab the knob

you swab that knob you dirty little slut, work it like a butter churn but look disgusted

that’s it, imagine what your life could have been, where you could be instead of mucking the stalls after truckers yank the crank

this is a love story but a secret sort

shhh

don’t forget to work the balls