(Threesome under stalls 3rd floor humanities building.)
Okay. Before we go any further let’s just establish that I am darkness. Seeing you is painful again. I wanna be / more honest with / my fondest / wishes for myself / but I must still / countervailing / how you hate dropping flailing marks restrained upon salient barbs / tailored to doing the job of / civilizing. You’re merely hiding a highly revered psychically-smeared nightmarish arr-/ ogance in pretense. It doesn’t bother me anymore! I’m a growing boy. Naw, that’s your masochist shit / your fastened up with. Holy-moley. Don’t call me Rolly. I’m trying to avoid the thought that my object-choice is boyish snob. Am I right for going to that part of the store? Nope. Do we need to take classes on exactly what it is that this logic is for? Hope not. Oh. You sob over the fact that you’ll never be as black as me and miraculously I tend to stay up nights wishing that I was as white. Aw. Sad little black boy.
(Man puts pocket leatherbound bible on bathroom floor to suck my cock basement Bryan center building.)
Did you fall down go boom? Get kicked out of your room? Would it be wise to presume that the sun usually shines at noon and you’ll be flooded with guys real soon / that’ll alleviate all of your tension for a second until you ejaculate. I hold my dick in my hand. I came but I don’t feel any better. Bandage on a manic pornographic loner stranded on a plastic seat for the last time this week I swear to god as my witness. I’m an ascetic from this day forth. So help me. Sincerely. Boldly swollen scrotum holdin’ stolen cold and frozen comatosted moments known from open torrents stored in sore and morbid scores of lore from olden days. Biased researched teams had tried to hurt me and call it delayed rage. Bouncing a couple of ideas off your dome. I was wondering what it is like at your home. Do you shop at a certain home furnishing maker? Did your grandmother tell you to dress like a skater? Do you honestly feel somehow you are more sexy? Are you not the outcast that is sitting right next to me? Do you feel that repressing your lust is not tiresome? Were you reared in a fully-nurturing environment? I don’t want to touch it. I don’t want to lick it. I just want to scope it juxtaposed with your full lips. No involvement. Be tolerant. Dollars went in the bill acceptor too many times to measure.
(Fucked boy in wheelchair stall; next day I bring along friend and he fucks the same boy in wheelchair stall also 2nd floor Cloud Hall.)
Get perplexed in triple x wondering what’s happening next. Fear and desire’s geysers of sperm hiding at every turn. Affecting a level of cold as I descend further into the abode. Scholastic labyrinths of fog that jog the memory back. According to the old narratives the palace of shadows has no mirrors, low clearance and gold terraces. Everywhere I might’ve stepped encased in layers of spiderwebs rendering phallic columns in solemn neutral colors of dusk as the ghost musk of desiring bodies soaks the humid air with lust. I miss you by degrees. It fluctuates in waves. Slapping your peckers together in happiness stretching forever and ever. The secret deeds of humans suffuses the breezes beneath the ruins in the implicated contours of shapely musical forms.
(Jerked off with super hot white boy on lunchbreak from Cody's 2nd floor Doe Library.)
The more I exert this bastard lance the further the curse will advance. It isn’t clear / exactly what year / this thing was made / and I was afraid / that it had preceded / the campaign of heathens / that roamed in seasonal / migrations with the natural patterns of sustenance / in such a way it just depends / on when you’ve entered the cycle. The map lies. The passageway of broken books is not the same this all should look. The key’s unlocked / depending on how / you’ve positioned the shelves to correspond with the age / of a given political figure. How long did I take you to get here? Calculating / the route that was taken / around the sacred hollow ancient talcum-laden cavern now found vacant. Visited by an apparition on the stairs that creeped through a row of antique chairs. Something perniciously toxic fixes a gloss on the blocks of tile made from bone / from a mysterious regular flooding of moisture judging by the speed the weeds have overgrown / always where heat expansion of the alkaline-rich ossiferous mosaic had taken fractures. If we keep going I might not know the way back here. When the wind blows the building exposes coquettish messages. Come open me up. I’m hiding something you want. I am this maze. Temporarily trippin’ on how board games tend to focus on space and position. One word: Locus. The entrance closes.

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