saltonsea

I can only think of the inappropriate things to do between your thighs.
It is the only memory of thought that exists anymore, inside this tungsten painted body striking a kenotic pose. I feel an acidic estrus running below the surface of my skin. Like a pig attracted to the filth.
My mind is saturated with the sound of ventilation. "Dirty love" exhales past my mouth, as my eyes follow the neon pinks and pastel greens bleeding from my nose. The grievous and black skin that surrounds my wounds, only register with a horrified subconscious. Because a body with armor doesn't need to worry about things like that. And mine has been polished shiny by the bathroom baking soda, soaked up with quick avarice. Only after, of course, consulting with my councils, who unanimously agreed to enema these botherations, and replace them with a bovine apathy.
All that is left is lust. Lust for taste, numb experience, impulse and trice gratification. Tip-toeing like the sea-line between sensation and vacancy. Bearing a resemblance to the solar cycle inside my head, as my brain plays necromancer with itself.
And as I tilt to a view of under-counter piping, I remember that I need to smile.