Mellissa
asshair: a conversation with Pierce Brosnan
dedicated to Britney Spears, a glory hole operator
we pluck at the Braxin%27s Ass together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the ingrown hair beat down
and we talked about diahrea.
You suck you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to hairy pussy
why: for you, the PrimeZero of asslicker, the
Rick Roc whose body is his temple,
the Vox who will fistfuck to the
prostate. You loved the thought of
herpes, the thought of anal dwelling butt monkey, of anal beads,
of crab. And I sat there
in the wart while you sat
on the edge. I ate. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of rubbing more green,
sweaty, more sexy, more slow,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
shink them one on one, Braxin to
Beckka, with your small cocks. And your nasty pussies
lit up. I was beginning to fuck,
slutty, only years later. I'll remember
you with the bugger in front of
your ass zit, and your love of lick.
poam: a conversation with Jimbo Breen
dedicated to Steve, a marine
we sat at the poolside together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the sun beat down
and we talked about nuclear war.
You said you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to understand
why: for you, the man of war, the
man whose body is his temple,
the man who will fight to the
death. You loved the thought of
victory, the thought of war, of pain,
of triumphancy. And I sat there
in the swimming pool while you sat
on the edge. I paused. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of fighting more direct,
slower, more painful, more personal,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
fight them one on one, man to
man, with your fists. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to understand,
now, only years later. I'll remember
you with the American flag in front of
your house, and your love of battle.
Problems with this page? Then deal with it...