Twinks Rally Under Mountain Pass

I think that the life of the roots pressed thick in the dancing soil is a real life.

No less real than the life on the Earth skin among the star's heat and mingled pheremones.

As real as the silent speaking in all bodies, the mother of these words.

Our Hirsute Pleasure

Here's the big bulb in the sock. I think there is a cat under the shed. The rubber from the round instrument has begun to melt and I felt it drip onto my head's bald top.

Float! Speak while you're floating, to remember yourself. If you can, listen to the flying things, feel the light divorced from the stars, and never forget the touch of cool wet rubber.

Wild Gift

Vermicultural hymns echo through the artificial canyons of the cemetery for hot guys. Big stud mourners weep in the shadows of concrete tree proxies.

Slapping naked thighs with wet hands, the guys in the office fear no bruises!

Bald bird cream dripping from the rafters makes the place seem like a motel where a surgeon goes to decieve himself.

Assaulting the Drone Lab in Moccasins

The clay abbot is eating with the help of fishermen's offspring who have been trained to gently operate his jaws and massage his throat to allow for the efficient passage of fish flesh and pasted herbs to the steaming vat of his belly. The food is good enough for the abbot but the wine, sullied by beetle larvae and their excrement, will be put out for the stable folk.

Boiled in tin pots, the abbot's drink shall instead be the spinal fluid of the fishermen themselves, harvested by the abbot's mistresses in their black gauze hoods and capes. By the time of the feast, these gorgeous skanks have retired to their richly appointed bedchambers to enter a catatonic state, dreaming of the fish who now swim free of fear.

Omnidirectional Kink Therapy

Using the ash of burned citrus peels, we create a thick slurry, the main ingredient in our day-masks. Once my slurry is mixed with pigment and urine, I form it into a vaguely porcine visage. Peter presses a fat thumb into its forehead, and places it into his cob kiln. I do the same for him; I still consider his elegant vespid creation to be the finest mask I've seen.

Down below the wanking hut and the grease pit, Peter and I, the pig and the wasp, fetch the bookbinder's laundry. We hide brass letters in her pockets, letters she will arrange and rearrange to find the words to the incantation.

One day, months or even years hence, she will have finally come to the final configuration. She will print and recite the incantation and we will sleep, our stolen masks melted for ink.