(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
(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.