The vessel levels out. The black flags spread from the masts. The captain digs into the deck, renting for more fury; praying, oh lord, that the promise he made on the beach of his boyhood altar was enough, and that the Joseph Smith looking son of a bitch grin he seems so fond of wearing will be strong enough to hold the attention of black mole rising, his hideous prom date who hit his seventeen year old self-consciously self-imposed limits just barely.
He kisses the peak of her cancer sack. Her mole hair gleams with excitement. Now she’s singing in the shower. My heart is beating faster. I’m over here touching my meat stick, thinking of this cream pie in the passenger seat, puffing my pipe while I shift the gear stick up and all over her gum line, cumming my fluff stuff into her esophageal tract, holding her head in place like a psychopathic truck driver, barreling a hundred and four in a death proof driver’s seat towards a sharp left, cliffside drop over goats and sharp points, the ghost making scenario for a passenger with a sadist’s hardness in her mouth, cumming and bursting out the back of her skull with blood shattering fragments sky-tumbling over the skyscape of this Coyote Western Wyoming backdrop.
The life juice goos out your you know what hole
And I’m just like, “Sorry sweetheart, I’m such and Ass and couldn’t get you to Paris like you promised us.
“I thought it was my head was going to explode, to be honest wit’cha.”
…
Don’t you know, the way to keep the good boys holy is to keep them on the street eating rat guts and trash piles, because the only hope for holiness must exist somewhere in the fact that dudes’ dicks can be ripped right off with bare hands.
