Oysters and Pearl Necklaces
Oyster of five hundred pearls, bearer of a bed of girls, all slack-chested, jelly breasted and made up to entertain high ideals of a beautiful world. As the smoker's relay starts to pass like an olympic torch carried by a plague of man's love for pleasure and pain, coloured lights fail to shine off a single face.
Then it begins, at first a rhythmic swing, so small only the air gently swirls. Imperceptibly every hip in the thick gelatinous space accellerates its sway, each in time and synchronous, mesmeric, yet monotonous, generic.
Tight faux-skins, white, shiny, gold, slimey; glisten and wriggle, the jelly jiggles and the gold jangles. Watch the slipperies knock like office desk toys, watch them ripple to their nipples, but don't look up.
For above is the face that infiltrates the human race, 500 versions of the same anomaly of ugliness preying on the weak, spreading wide for what what the alcoholics seek, allowing the pickled semi-erection to slice its way past the rancid coagulated sweat and juice, to play away in their council house.
What the purpose?
What the pain?
Let the cheap harlots of the grain explain as their words come smudged in red grease, "it's survival of the willingestmy sweet, come inside and see at least."
I look down at this point in shame, and see my willy go grey-brown and drop off, like a fungus to the floor, only to grow a replacement rapidly, like a lizard-tail, likely to fuck some more.
Oyster of five hundred pearls, bearer of a bed of girls, all slack-chested, jelly breasted and made up to entertain high ideals of a beautiful world. As the smoker's relay starts to pass like an olympic torch carried by a plague of man's love for pleasure and pain, coloured lights fail to shine off a single face.
Then it begins, at first a rhythmic swing, so small only the air gently swirls. Imperceptibly every hip in the thick gelatinous space accellerates its sway, each in time and synchronous, mesmeric, yet monotonous, generic.
Tight faux-skins, white, shiny, gold, slimey; glisten and wriggle, the jelly jiggles and the gold jangles. Watch the slipperies knock like office desk toys, watch them ripple to their nipples, but don't look up.
For above is the face that infiltrates the human race, 500 versions of the same anomaly of ugliness preying on the weak, spreading wide for what what the alcoholics seek, allowing the pickled semi-erection to slice its way past the rancid coagulated sweat and juice, to play away in their council house.
What the purpose?
What the pain?
Let the cheap harlots of the grain explain as their words come smudged in red grease, "it's survival of the willingestmy sweet, come inside and see at least."
I look down at this point in shame, and see my willy go grey-brown and drop off, like a fungus to the floor, only to grow a replacement rapidly, like a lizard-tail, likely to fuck some more.