Entrails, and the Exit of Fast Love?


Bring it on slow. Bring it on fast. As long as I feel it…

She wants that indoor church feeling. That outdoor temple feeling. Everything at once, filling her tongue, and slipping down the throat and pumping the head until it explodes into the late night last cigarette Leonard Cohen feeling. Fuck’s a dirty word. Sin and screwed up faces says it better. We finish up. At least for a couple of hours, and sit, and talk about how each other have known people that have died. How abstract their funerals were. Why the trains don’t run late at night. Clean sheets, and I can’t remember when, where we met. Our lips sting kisses of vodka and scotch. No words. Back to it again.

Open blister lids to a lipstick kiss blown onto the pillow. Then the remembrance of a fight. Mists of violence. But it was all in whispers. Convinced her to stay. Sleep on the couch. And now it’s all. Gone. Was it a sleep story? Was it? Her pushing expensive manicured hands into my mouth. Tells me to keep it quiet – I have sharp teeth, they hurt. Fingers bunching up arteries, pipes and veins into a bunch. Scrunching, tearing the whole. Mess. Out.

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