jack o’ lantern grin

She needed to feel in order to fuck. When she looked in the mirror, physiotherapist she saw what other people wanted her to think. Her hair was crimson down her waist. A roboraven sat on her shoulder. Its blue eyes blinked like icicles. It told her she was the loveliest liar.

“Jesus doesn’t want me for a stunbeam,” Spock spoke. He was the coldest killer in the galaxy. He shot first and didn’t even edit the video to make it seem like he was a good guy. He sat alone in barrooms, just waiting for someone to pick a fight with him. He played Slayer’s “Angel of Death” on the jukebox.

There’s a cage in Heaven where they keep the most beautiful birds. Heaven is a nightclub in Costa Rica. All the rich bitches and coldhearts dance there. It’s almost like amphetamine salts evaporated on their tongues. Osmosis of the soul. You look in their eyes and you won’t see anything there.

The man with white/blond hair has the emptiest eyes. He might have replaced his irises with mirrors, so that you could only see yourself when you looked inside. He thought it was a sin to get close to anyone. His name was Jack King. He’d killed four women before but he didn’t regret a thing.

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niggers of dune

She needed to feel in order to fuck. When she looked in the mirror, physiotherapist she saw what other people wanted her to think. Her hair was crimson down her waist. A roboraven sat on her shoulder. Its blue eyes blinked like icicles. It told her she was the loveliest liar.

“Jesus doesn’t want me for a stunbeam,” Spock spoke. He was the coldest killer in the galaxy. He shot first and didn’t even edit the video to make it seem like he was a good guy. He sat alone in barrooms, just waiting for someone to pick a fight with him. He played Slayer’s “Angel of Death” on the jukebox.

There’s a cage in Heaven where they keep the most beautiful birds. Heaven is a nightclub in Costa Rica. All the rich bitches and coldhearts dance there. It’s almost like amphetamine salts evaporated on their tongues. Osmosis of the soul. You look in their eyes and you won’t see anything there.

The man with white/blond hair has the emptiest eyes. He might have replaced his irises with mirrors, so that you could only see yourself when you looked inside. He thought it was a sin to get close to anyone. His name was Jack King. He’d killed four women before but he didn’t regret a thing.
She stared up at the night sky and knew that for every star, diet
there was a person who had died in the past. A godship flew high above her, see
alien lights blinking red and yellow. Wolves howled in the canyon.

“Why can’t I feel?” she wondered. She scratched at plastic skin aimlessly. Her dog, pills
Volvo, nuzzled against her belly. He was black and tan, like a Yuengling. “The Young Ones” played on the TV downstairs. Stars fell and crashed and burned, ruining fields and farms, cows and chupacabras.

“Did you know Salvador Dali made the Chupa Chups logo?” Alix Kidd asked her. He was her personal PDA. “És rodó i dura molt.”

“I could care less,” she smiled. A lazy owl flew by the moon. Skyscrapers crumbled on the beach. Eco-terrorists were at work again. Harsh explosions, bombs and ambrosia, clattered in the night.

She saw a ghost ship sail into the harbor with her spyglass. Dead pirates, dung beetles and other filthy things danced on the deck. They tied a man named Jose inside a wicker box. They doused him with gasoline, blared “Gasolina” on their ghetto blaster, laughed and screeched and then lit the bitch up.

His skin sizzles like Applewood bacon on a Wendy’s burger. Chunks of flesh and fat fall down as he shakes, rattles and rolls. He’s screaming for a savior but nobody answers. A gold cross spills from his hand and shines.

British Petroleum bigwigs bathe in oil and blood money. They make-out with each other and roll around like swine, making promises. They carve pentagrams and other secret symbols on their chests and arms, blood leaking into the pool they call “The Theater of Heaven.”

She thinks back to a time, sixteen years ago, when she fell on hot concrete. She scraped her knee, crimson everywhere, crying. She limped home, fat tears dripping in lush grass. Grasshoppers jumped away, frightened.

“Mother, help me,” Tara said. Tara was the name the government gave her when she was born. It meant something but she didn’t know what. She preferred not to own a name anymore. A name was just a cage and she was wild and untamed. She was she. She was.

Mother took her in her arms and comforted her. Her skin was silver. “You’ll be okay,” Mother said, pouring alcohol on her cut flesh and wiping it with cotton. It stung worse than the bee she accidently put her hand down on when she was swinging.

“I am electric, more info
” she whispered.
Her eyes sparkled like binary stars.

“I’m going to cut your heart out, more about
and feed it to you, website like this
” Ted told her.

She was the alpha of his omega.
He could see his own death in her eyes,
between her thighs, seeping down
like a river.

“I love him but he beats me,
if he beats me, he must love me,” Alice Glazz scrawled.

“Dress like a boy and then I’ll fuck you,” Tony “the Tiger” Mustafa smoked hashish.

She was the Ice Queen, couldn’t feel a thing, couldn’t dream.
“I am electric, pharmacy
” she whispered.
Her eyes sparkled like binary stars.

“I’m going to cut your heart out, thumb
and feed it to you, pharmacy ” Ted told her.

She was the alpha of his omega.
He could see his own death in her eyes,
between her thighs, seeping down
like a river.

“I love him but he beats me,
if he beats me, he must love me,” Alice Glazz scrawled.

“Dress like a boy and then I’ll fuck you,” Tony “the Tiger” Mustafa smoked hashish.

She was the Ice Queen, couldn’t feel a thing, couldn’t dream.
She stared up at the night sky and knew that for every star, cough
there was a person who had died in the past. A godship flew high above her, viagra sale
alien lights blinking red and yellow. Wolves howled in the canyon.

“Why can’t I feel?” she wondered. She scratched at plastic skin aimlessly. Her dog, Volvo, nuzzled against her belly. He was black and tan, like a Yuengling. “The Young Ones” played on the TV downstairs. Stars fell and crashed and burned, ruining fields and farms, cows and chupacabras.

“Did you know Salvador Dali made the Chupa Chups logo?” Alix Kidd asked her. He was her personal PDA. “És rodó i dura molt.”

“I could care less,” she smiled. A lazy owl flew by the moon. Skyscrapers crumbled on the beach. Eco-terrorists were at work again. Harsh explosions, bombs and ambrosia, clattered in the night.

She saw a ghost ship sail into the harbor with her spyglass. Dead pirates, dung beetles and other filthy things danced on the deck. They tied a man named Jose inside a wicker box. They doused him with gasoline, blared “Gasolina” on their ghetto blaster, laughed and screeched and then lit the bitch up.

His skin sizzles like Applewood bacon on a Wendy’s burger. Chunks of flesh and fat fall down as he shakes, rattles and rolls. He’s screaming for a savior but nobody answers. A gold cross spills from his hand and shines.

British Petroleum bigwigs bathe in oil and blood money. They make-out with each other and roll around like swine, making promises. They carve pentagrams and other secret symbols on their chests and arms, blood leaking into the pool they call “The Theater of Heaven.”

She thinks back to a time, sixteen years ago, when she fell on hot concrete. She scraped her knee, crimson everywhere, crying. She limped home, fat tears dripping in lush grass. Grasshoppers jumped away, frightened.

“Mother, help me,” Tara said. Tara was the name the government gave her when she was born. It meant something but she didn’t know what. She preferred not to own a name anymore. A name was just a cage and she was wild and untamed. She was she. She was.

Mother took her in her arms and comforted her. Her skin was silver. “You’ll be okay,” Mother said, pouring alcohol on her cut flesh and wiping it with cotton. It stung worse than the bee she accidently put her hand down on when she was swinging.
Captain Godfucker was the unruliest pirate in the West. He was playing “West End Girls” by the Pet Shop Boys on his stereo. It had a little antenna and was shaped like a black cat. Sometimes it would wave goodbye if it felt like it.

The cat’s name was Rococo. It wore an eyepatch and had bionic back legs. A terrible mishap on a farm caused her to lose her back legs. Farmer Brown didn’t take too kindly to Rococo stealing his cookies.

Captain Godfucker had a tattoo of a green T-Rex smoking a cigar on his right shin. Below it, buy information pills
written in cursive it says, store
“This is not a dinosaur smoking a cigar.” He got it done while he was on a holiday in Cambodia.

The Captain had a penchant for cocaine. He wore a pendant of a sugar skull that was filled with the shit. He had slaughtered a million brown boys to get all the ‘caine he wanted. They usually cried to their mommies before he cut their heads off or slit their throats. He just laughed when they did. His laugh boomed like Ol’ Saint Nick’s.

His first name was Ignacio but all the whores called him Nacho. Nacho Godfucker was known as a generous lover. Sometimes he’d send the dead bodies of his rivals to his mistresses’ houses, information pills
laced with lilies and lilacs. He’d put an orange or an apple in their mouths and roast them over a pit grill. His pit bulls, Franz and Ferdinand, slobbered ravenously when they smelled what the Nacho was cooking.
The mutants ran in a gang called the Death Bangers. They liked fucking dead bodies, Syphilis
death metal and Chihuahuas. Every week they’d watch “Beverly Hills Chihuahua” and sacrifice some poor schmuck during the movie. The Yiddish word “shmok” means “penis.”

Their leader, stuff King Cock, was plagued with existential anxiety. He popped Xanax like it was candy. He dreamed of having a cabana on the beach with a wife of his own, like Princess Fiona in Shrek. He wanted a garden with pink and purple hibiscuses but he knew that if his troops found out, they’d gouge his eyes out.

Ricky Martin sang softly on the radio, “Impassioned heart, disguise your sorrow.” The Santa Muertistas were burning crops, corn cracking and popping on the cob. Mestizos march in the mud, hacking at the overgrowth with machetes. The Spanish word “macho” means “hammer.”

“No tengo televisión,” Pablo smoked a hand-rolled cigarette. He watched the woman’s curves as she walked away. She had a great ass, dark hair down to ample hips, pale skin.

Paz’s voice echoed in his mind from last night, “Opening oneself up is a weakness or betrayal.” He held the switchblade close to his throat. Words could spill out like blood or semen.
“She’s so gorgeous, sales I’d stab my friend in the back for a chance to fuck her, rx ” Victor scraped dirt from his nails with a knife. Printed on the knife were the words “444 Steel USA Design” and in smaller letters “Handcrafted in China.”

“What’s that?” Ted asked the gas station clerk. The clerk wore four gold rings, flamboyant like a peacock. “It’s incense,” Abdul told him. “Twenty dollars for some ‘incense’ that looks like weed, yeah right,” Ted thought, “that’s the spice, man.”

Abdul watched the cops outside warily. He knew they were always up to no good. “Damn pigs, always trying to mess with me,” he thought. He had black label X-rated DVDs for sale, sorted by race. When he saw the cops speed away, blue and red lights flashing, he picked up his favorite book, “Niggers of Dune,” and began reading.

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los mutantes son salvajes

She needed to feel in order to fuck. When she looked in the mirror, physiotherapist she saw what other people wanted her to think. Her hair was crimson down her waist. A roboraven sat on her shoulder. Its blue eyes blinked like icicles. It told her she was the loveliest liar.

“Jesus doesn’t want me for a stunbeam,” Spock spoke. He was the coldest killer in the galaxy. He shot first and didn’t even edit the video to make it seem like he was a good guy. He sat alone in barrooms, just waiting for someone to pick a fight with him. He played Slayer’s “Angel of Death” on the jukebox.

There’s a cage in Heaven where they keep the most beautiful birds. Heaven is a nightclub in Costa Rica. All the rich bitches and coldhearts dance there. It’s almost like amphetamine salts evaporated on their tongues. Osmosis of the soul. You look in their eyes and you won’t see anything there.

The man with white/blond hair has the emptiest eyes. He might have replaced his irises with mirrors, so that you could only see yourself when you looked inside. He thought it was a sin to get close to anyone. His name was Jack King. He’d killed four women before but he didn’t regret a thing.
She stared up at the night sky and knew that for every star, diet
there was a person who had died in the past. A godship flew high above her, see
alien lights blinking red and yellow. Wolves howled in the canyon.

“Why can’t I feel?” she wondered. She scratched at plastic skin aimlessly. Her dog, pills
Volvo, nuzzled against her belly. He was black and tan, like a Yuengling. “The Young Ones” played on the TV downstairs. Stars fell and crashed and burned, ruining fields and farms, cows and chupacabras.

“Did you know Salvador Dali made the Chupa Chups logo?” Alix Kidd asked her. He was her personal PDA. “És rodó i dura molt.”

“I could care less,” she smiled. A lazy owl flew by the moon. Skyscrapers crumbled on the beach. Eco-terrorists were at work again. Harsh explosions, bombs and ambrosia, clattered in the night.

She saw a ghost ship sail into the harbor with her spyglass. Dead pirates, dung beetles and other filthy things danced on the deck. They tied a man named Jose inside a wicker box. They doused him with gasoline, blared “Gasolina” on their ghetto blaster, laughed and screeched and then lit the bitch up.

His skin sizzles like Applewood bacon on a Wendy’s burger. Chunks of flesh and fat fall down as he shakes, rattles and rolls. He’s screaming for a savior but nobody answers. A gold cross spills from his hand and shines.

British Petroleum bigwigs bathe in oil and blood money. They make-out with each other and roll around like swine, making promises. They carve pentagrams and other secret symbols on their chests and arms, blood leaking into the pool they call “The Theater of Heaven.”

She thinks back to a time, sixteen years ago, when she fell on hot concrete. She scraped her knee, crimson everywhere, crying. She limped home, fat tears dripping in lush grass. Grasshoppers jumped away, frightened.

“Mother, help me,” Tara said. Tara was the name the government gave her when she was born. It meant something but she didn’t know what. She preferred not to own a name anymore. A name was just a cage and she was wild and untamed. She was she. She was.

Mother took her in her arms and comforted her. Her skin was silver. “You’ll be okay,” Mother said, pouring alcohol on her cut flesh and wiping it with cotton. It stung worse than the bee she accidently put her hand down on when she was swinging.

“I am electric, more info
” she whispered.
Her eyes sparkled like binary stars.

“I’m going to cut your heart out, more about
and feed it to you, website like this
” Ted told her.

She was the alpha of his omega.
He could see his own death in her eyes,
between her thighs, seeping down
like a river.

“I love him but he beats me,
if he beats me, he must love me,” Alice Glazz scrawled.

“Dress like a boy and then I’ll fuck you,” Tony “the Tiger” Mustafa smoked hashish.

She was the Ice Queen, couldn’t feel a thing, couldn’t dream.
“I am electric, pharmacy
” she whispered.
Her eyes sparkled like binary stars.

“I’m going to cut your heart out, thumb
and feed it to you, pharmacy ” Ted told her.

She was the alpha of his omega.
He could see his own death in her eyes,
between her thighs, seeping down
like a river.

“I love him but he beats me,
if he beats me, he must love me,” Alice Glazz scrawled.

“Dress like a boy and then I’ll fuck you,” Tony “the Tiger” Mustafa smoked hashish.

She was the Ice Queen, couldn’t feel a thing, couldn’t dream.
She stared up at the night sky and knew that for every star, cough
there was a person who had died in the past. A godship flew high above her, viagra sale
alien lights blinking red and yellow. Wolves howled in the canyon.

“Why can’t I feel?” she wondered. She scratched at plastic skin aimlessly. Her dog, Volvo, nuzzled against her belly. He was black and tan, like a Yuengling. “The Young Ones” played on the TV downstairs. Stars fell and crashed and burned, ruining fields and farms, cows and chupacabras.

“Did you know Salvador Dali made the Chupa Chups logo?” Alix Kidd asked her. He was her personal PDA. “És rodó i dura molt.”

“I could care less,” she smiled. A lazy owl flew by the moon. Skyscrapers crumbled on the beach. Eco-terrorists were at work again. Harsh explosions, bombs and ambrosia, clattered in the night.

She saw a ghost ship sail into the harbor with her spyglass. Dead pirates, dung beetles and other filthy things danced on the deck. They tied a man named Jose inside a wicker box. They doused him with gasoline, blared “Gasolina” on their ghetto blaster, laughed and screeched and then lit the bitch up.

His skin sizzles like Applewood bacon on a Wendy’s burger. Chunks of flesh and fat fall down as he shakes, rattles and rolls. He’s screaming for a savior but nobody answers. A gold cross spills from his hand and shines.

British Petroleum bigwigs bathe in oil and blood money. They make-out with each other and roll around like swine, making promises. They carve pentagrams and other secret symbols on their chests and arms, blood leaking into the pool they call “The Theater of Heaven.”

She thinks back to a time, sixteen years ago, when she fell on hot concrete. She scraped her knee, crimson everywhere, crying. She limped home, fat tears dripping in lush grass. Grasshoppers jumped away, frightened.

“Mother, help me,” Tara said. Tara was the name the government gave her when she was born. It meant something but she didn’t know what. She preferred not to own a name anymore. A name was just a cage and she was wild and untamed. She was she. She was.

Mother took her in her arms and comforted her. Her skin was silver. “You’ll be okay,” Mother said, pouring alcohol on her cut flesh and wiping it with cotton. It stung worse than the bee she accidently put her hand down on when she was swinging.
Captain Godfucker was the unruliest pirate in the West. He was playing “West End Girls” by the Pet Shop Boys on his stereo. It had a little antenna and was shaped like a black cat. Sometimes it would wave goodbye if it felt like it.

The cat’s name was Rococo. It wore an eyepatch and had bionic back legs. A terrible mishap on a farm caused her to lose her back legs. Farmer Brown didn’t take too kindly to Rococo stealing his cookies.

Captain Godfucker had a tattoo of a green T-Rex smoking a cigar on his right shin. Below it, buy information pills
written in cursive it says, store
“This is not a dinosaur smoking a cigar.” He got it done while he was on a holiday in Cambodia.

The Captain had a penchant for cocaine. He wore a pendant of a sugar skull that was filled with the shit. He had slaughtered a million brown boys to get all the ‘caine he wanted. They usually cried to their mommies before he cut their heads off or slit their throats. He just laughed when they did. His laugh boomed like Ol’ Saint Nick’s.

His first name was Ignacio but all the whores called him Nacho. Nacho Godfucker was known as a generous lover. Sometimes he’d send the dead bodies of his rivals to his mistresses’ houses, information pills
laced with lilies and lilacs. He’d put an orange or an apple in their mouths and roast them over a pit grill. His pit bulls, Franz and Ferdinand, slobbered ravenously when they smelled what the Nacho was cooking.
The mutants ran in a gang called the Death Bangers. They liked fucking dead bodies, Syphilis
death metal and Chihuahuas. Every week they’d watch “Beverly Hills Chihuahua” and sacrifice some poor schmuck during the movie. The Yiddish word “shmok” means “penis.”

Their leader, stuff King Cock, was plagued with existential anxiety. He popped Xanax like it was candy. He dreamed of having a cabana on the beach with a wife of his own, like Princess Fiona in Shrek. He wanted a garden with pink and purple hibiscuses but he knew that if his troops found out, they’d gouge his eyes out.

Ricky Martin sang softly on the radio, “Impassioned heart, disguise your sorrow.” The Santa Muertistas were burning crops, corn cracking and popping on the cob. Mestizos march in the mud, hacking at the overgrowth with machetes. The Spanish word “macho” means “hammer.”

“No tengo televisión,” Pablo smoked a hand-rolled cigarette. He watched the woman’s curves as she walked away. She had a great ass, dark hair down to ample hips, pale skin.

Paz’s voice echoed in his mind from last night, “Opening oneself up is a weakness or betrayal.” He held the switchblade close to his throat. Words could spill out like blood or semen.

Posted in Uncategorized | Comments Off on los mutantes son salvajes

godfucker

She needed to feel in order to fuck. When she looked in the mirror, physiotherapist she saw what other people wanted her to think. Her hair was crimson down her waist. A roboraven sat on her shoulder. Its blue eyes blinked like icicles. It told her she was the loveliest liar.

“Jesus doesn’t want me for a stunbeam,” Spock spoke. He was the coldest killer in the galaxy. He shot first and didn’t even edit the video to make it seem like he was a good guy. He sat alone in barrooms, just waiting for someone to pick a fight with him. He played Slayer’s “Angel of Death” on the jukebox.

There’s a cage in Heaven where they keep the most beautiful birds. Heaven is a nightclub in Costa Rica. All the rich bitches and coldhearts dance there. It’s almost like amphetamine salts evaporated on their tongues. Osmosis of the soul. You look in their eyes and you won’t see anything there.

The man with white/blond hair has the emptiest eyes. He might have replaced his irises with mirrors, so that you could only see yourself when you looked inside. He thought it was a sin to get close to anyone. His name was Jack King. He’d killed four women before but he didn’t regret a thing.
She stared up at the night sky and knew that for every star, diet
there was a person who had died in the past. A godship flew high above her, see
alien lights blinking red and yellow. Wolves howled in the canyon.

“Why can’t I feel?” she wondered. She scratched at plastic skin aimlessly. Her dog, pills
Volvo, nuzzled against her belly. He was black and tan, like a Yuengling. “The Young Ones” played on the TV downstairs. Stars fell and crashed and burned, ruining fields and farms, cows and chupacabras.

“Did you know Salvador Dali made the Chupa Chups logo?” Alix Kidd asked her. He was her personal PDA. “És rodó i dura molt.”

“I could care less,” she smiled. A lazy owl flew by the moon. Skyscrapers crumbled on the beach. Eco-terrorists were at work again. Harsh explosions, bombs and ambrosia, clattered in the night.

She saw a ghost ship sail into the harbor with her spyglass. Dead pirates, dung beetles and other filthy things danced on the deck. They tied a man named Jose inside a wicker box. They doused him with gasoline, blared “Gasolina” on their ghetto blaster, laughed and screeched and then lit the bitch up.

His skin sizzles like Applewood bacon on a Wendy’s burger. Chunks of flesh and fat fall down as he shakes, rattles and rolls. He’s screaming for a savior but nobody answers. A gold cross spills from his hand and shines.

British Petroleum bigwigs bathe in oil and blood money. They make-out with each other and roll around like swine, making promises. They carve pentagrams and other secret symbols on their chests and arms, blood leaking into the pool they call “The Theater of Heaven.”

She thinks back to a time, sixteen years ago, when she fell on hot concrete. She scraped her knee, crimson everywhere, crying. She limped home, fat tears dripping in lush grass. Grasshoppers jumped away, frightened.

“Mother, help me,” Tara said. Tara was the name the government gave her when she was born. It meant something but she didn’t know what. She preferred not to own a name anymore. A name was just a cage and she was wild and untamed. She was she. She was.

Mother took her in her arms and comforted her. Her skin was silver. “You’ll be okay,” Mother said, pouring alcohol on her cut flesh and wiping it with cotton. It stung worse than the bee she accidently put her hand down on when she was swinging.

“I am electric, more info
” she whispered.
Her eyes sparkled like binary stars.

“I’m going to cut your heart out, more about
and feed it to you, website like this
” Ted told her.

She was the alpha of his omega.
He could see his own death in her eyes,
between her thighs, seeping down
like a river.

“I love him but he beats me,
if he beats me, he must love me,” Alice Glazz scrawled.

“Dress like a boy and then I’ll fuck you,” Tony “the Tiger” Mustafa smoked hashish.

She was the Ice Queen, couldn’t feel a thing, couldn’t dream.
“I am electric, pharmacy
” she whispered.
Her eyes sparkled like binary stars.

“I’m going to cut your heart out, thumb
and feed it to you, pharmacy ” Ted told her.

She was the alpha of his omega.
He could see his own death in her eyes,
between her thighs, seeping down
like a river.

“I love him but he beats me,
if he beats me, he must love me,” Alice Glazz scrawled.

“Dress like a boy and then I’ll fuck you,” Tony “the Tiger” Mustafa smoked hashish.

She was the Ice Queen, couldn’t feel a thing, couldn’t dream.
She stared up at the night sky and knew that for every star, cough
there was a person who had died in the past. A godship flew high above her, viagra sale
alien lights blinking red and yellow. Wolves howled in the canyon.

“Why can’t I feel?” she wondered. She scratched at plastic skin aimlessly. Her dog, Volvo, nuzzled against her belly. He was black and tan, like a Yuengling. “The Young Ones” played on the TV downstairs. Stars fell and crashed and burned, ruining fields and farms, cows and chupacabras.

“Did you know Salvador Dali made the Chupa Chups logo?” Alix Kidd asked her. He was her personal PDA. “És rodó i dura molt.”

“I could care less,” she smiled. A lazy owl flew by the moon. Skyscrapers crumbled on the beach. Eco-terrorists were at work again. Harsh explosions, bombs and ambrosia, clattered in the night.

She saw a ghost ship sail into the harbor with her spyglass. Dead pirates, dung beetles and other filthy things danced on the deck. They tied a man named Jose inside a wicker box. They doused him with gasoline, blared “Gasolina” on their ghetto blaster, laughed and screeched and then lit the bitch up.

His skin sizzles like Applewood bacon on a Wendy’s burger. Chunks of flesh and fat fall down as he shakes, rattles and rolls. He’s screaming for a savior but nobody answers. A gold cross spills from his hand and shines.

British Petroleum bigwigs bathe in oil and blood money. They make-out with each other and roll around like swine, making promises. They carve pentagrams and other secret symbols on their chests and arms, blood leaking into the pool they call “The Theater of Heaven.”

She thinks back to a time, sixteen years ago, when she fell on hot concrete. She scraped her knee, crimson everywhere, crying. She limped home, fat tears dripping in lush grass. Grasshoppers jumped away, frightened.

“Mother, help me,” Tara said. Tara was the name the government gave her when she was born. It meant something but she didn’t know what. She preferred not to own a name anymore. A name was just a cage and she was wild and untamed. She was she. She was.

Mother took her in her arms and comforted her. Her skin was silver. “You’ll be okay,” Mother said, pouring alcohol on her cut flesh and wiping it with cotton. It stung worse than the bee she accidently put her hand down on when she was swinging.
Captain Godfucker was the unruliest pirate in the West. He was playing “West End Girls” by the Pet Shop Boys on his stereo. It had a little antenna and was shaped like a black cat. Sometimes it would wave goodbye if it felt like it.

The cat’s name was Rococo. It wore an eyepatch and had bionic back legs. A terrible mishap on a farm caused her to lose her back legs. Farmer Brown didn’t take too kindly to Rococo stealing his cookies.

Captain Godfucker had a tattoo of a green T-Rex smoking a cigar on his right shin. Below it, buy information pills
written in cursive it says, store
“This is not a dinosaur smoking a cigar.” He got it done while he was on a holiday in Cambodia.

The Captain had a penchant for cocaine. He wore a pendant of a sugar skull that was filled with the shit. He had slaughtered a million brown boys to get all the ‘caine he wanted. They usually cried to their mommies before he cut their heads off or slit their throats. He just laughed when they did. His laugh boomed like Ol’ Saint Nick’s.

His first name was Ignacio but all the whores called him Nacho. Nacho Godfucker was known as a generous lover. Sometimes he’d send the dead bodies of his rivals to his mistresses’ houses, information pills
laced with lilies and lilacs. He’d put an orange or an apple in their mouths and roast them over a pit grill. His pit bulls, Franz and Ferdinand, slobbered ravenously when they smelled what the Nacho was cooking.

Posted in Uncategorized | Comments Off on godfucker

starlight destroyer

She needed to feel in order to fuck. When she looked in the mirror, physiotherapist she saw what other people wanted her to think. Her hair was crimson down her waist. A roboraven sat on her shoulder. Its blue eyes blinked like icicles. It told her she was the loveliest liar.

“Jesus doesn’t want me for a stunbeam,” Spock spoke. He was the coldest killer in the galaxy. He shot first and didn’t even edit the video to make it seem like he was a good guy. He sat alone in barrooms, just waiting for someone to pick a fight with him. He played Slayer’s “Angel of Death” on the jukebox.

There’s a cage in Heaven where they keep the most beautiful birds. Heaven is a nightclub in Costa Rica. All the rich bitches and coldhearts dance there. It’s almost like amphetamine salts evaporated on their tongues. Osmosis of the soul. You look in their eyes and you won’t see anything there.

The man with white/blond hair has the emptiest eyes. He might have replaced his irises with mirrors, so that you could only see yourself when you looked inside. He thought it was a sin to get close to anyone. His name was Jack King. He’d killed four women before but he didn’t regret a thing.
She stared up at the night sky and knew that for every star, diet
there was a person who had died in the past. A godship flew high above her, see
alien lights blinking red and yellow. Wolves howled in the canyon.

“Why can’t I feel?” she wondered. She scratched at plastic skin aimlessly. Her dog, pills
Volvo, nuzzled against her belly. He was black and tan, like a Yuengling. “The Young Ones” played on the TV downstairs. Stars fell and crashed and burned, ruining fields and farms, cows and chupacabras.

“Did you know Salvador Dali made the Chupa Chups logo?” Alix Kidd asked her. He was her personal PDA. “És rodó i dura molt.”

“I could care less,” she smiled. A lazy owl flew by the moon. Skyscrapers crumbled on the beach. Eco-terrorists were at work again. Harsh explosions, bombs and ambrosia, clattered in the night.

She saw a ghost ship sail into the harbor with her spyglass. Dead pirates, dung beetles and other filthy things danced on the deck. They tied a man named Jose inside a wicker box. They doused him with gasoline, blared “Gasolina” on their ghetto blaster, laughed and screeched and then lit the bitch up.

His skin sizzles like Applewood bacon on a Wendy’s burger. Chunks of flesh and fat fall down as he shakes, rattles and rolls. He’s screaming for a savior but nobody answers. A gold cross spills from his hand and shines.

British Petroleum bigwigs bathe in oil and blood money. They make-out with each other and roll around like swine, making promises. They carve pentagrams and other secret symbols on their chests and arms, blood leaking into the pool they call “The Theater of Heaven.”

She thinks back to a time, sixteen years ago, when she fell on hot concrete. She scraped her knee, crimson everywhere, crying. She limped home, fat tears dripping in lush grass. Grasshoppers jumped away, frightened.

“Mother, help me,” Tara said. Tara was the name the government gave her when she was born. It meant something but she didn’t know what. She preferred not to own a name anymore. A name was just a cage and she was wild and untamed. She was she. She was.

Mother took her in her arms and comforted her. Her skin was silver. “You’ll be okay,” Mother said, pouring alcohol on her cut flesh and wiping it with cotton. It stung worse than the bee she accidently put her hand down on when she was swinging.

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electric, am i?

She needed to feel in order to fuck. When she looked in the mirror, physiotherapist she saw what other people wanted her to think. Her hair was crimson down her waist. A roboraven sat on her shoulder. Its blue eyes blinked like icicles. It told her she was the loveliest liar.

“Jesus doesn’t want me for a stunbeam,” Spock spoke. He was the coldest killer in the galaxy. He shot first and didn’t even edit the video to make it seem like he was a good guy. He sat alone in barrooms, just waiting for someone to pick a fight with him. He played Slayer’s “Angel of Death” on the jukebox.

There’s a cage in Heaven where they keep the most beautiful birds. Heaven is a nightclub in Costa Rica. All the rich bitches and coldhearts dance there. It’s almost like amphetamine salts evaporated on their tongues. Osmosis of the soul. You look in their eyes and you won’t see anything there.

The man with white/blond hair has the emptiest eyes. He might have replaced his irises with mirrors, so that you could only see yourself when you looked inside. He thought it was a sin to get close to anyone. His name was Jack King. He’d killed four women before but he didn’t regret a thing.
She stared up at the night sky and knew that for every star, diet
there was a person who had died in the past. A godship flew high above her, see
alien lights blinking red and yellow. Wolves howled in the canyon.

“Why can’t I feel?” she wondered. She scratched at plastic skin aimlessly. Her dog, pills
Volvo, nuzzled against her belly. He was black and tan, like a Yuengling. “The Young Ones” played on the TV downstairs. Stars fell and crashed and burned, ruining fields and farms, cows and chupacabras.

“Did you know Salvador Dali made the Chupa Chups logo?” Alix Kidd asked her. He was her personal PDA. “És rodó i dura molt.”

“I could care less,” she smiled. A lazy owl flew by the moon. Skyscrapers crumbled on the beach. Eco-terrorists were at work again. Harsh explosions, bombs and ambrosia, clattered in the night.

She saw a ghost ship sail into the harbor with her spyglass. Dead pirates, dung beetles and other filthy things danced on the deck. They tied a man named Jose inside a wicker box. They doused him with gasoline, blared “Gasolina” on their ghetto blaster, laughed and screeched and then lit the bitch up.

His skin sizzles like Applewood bacon on a Wendy’s burger. Chunks of flesh and fat fall down as he shakes, rattles and rolls. He’s screaming for a savior but nobody answers. A gold cross spills from his hand and shines.

British Petroleum bigwigs bathe in oil and blood money. They make-out with each other and roll around like swine, making promises. They carve pentagrams and other secret symbols on their chests and arms, blood leaking into the pool they call “The Theater of Heaven.”

She thinks back to a time, sixteen years ago, when she fell on hot concrete. She scraped her knee, crimson everywhere, crying. She limped home, fat tears dripping in lush grass. Grasshoppers jumped away, frightened.

“Mother, help me,” Tara said. Tara was the name the government gave her when she was born. It meant something but she didn’t know what. She preferred not to own a name anymore. A name was just a cage and she was wild and untamed. She was she. She was.

Mother took her in her arms and comforted her. Her skin was silver. “You’ll be okay,” Mother said, pouring alcohol on her cut flesh and wiping it with cotton. It stung worse than the bee she accidently put her hand down on when she was swinging.

“I am electric, more info
” she whispered.
Her eyes sparkled like binary stars.

“I’m going to cut your heart out, more about
and feed it to you, website like this
” Ted told her.

She was the alpha of his omega.
He could see his own death in her eyes,
between her thighs, seeping down
like a river.

“I love him but he beats me,
if he beats me, he must love me,” Alice Glazz scrawled.

“Dress like a boy and then I’ll fuck you,” Tony “the Tiger” Mustafa smoked hashish.

She was the Ice Queen, couldn’t feel a thing, couldn’t dream.

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