My love is a prick
Like a cactus, or a dick.
And when it rains on quiet mornings, I suck upon her tits.
“Oh I could so sex right now!,” she cried out loud desperately in a moment of sudden dawning when the words wanted to escape her.
She had been listening to him all day. All of too day and two days and even when it had rained. His voice had become a dark sort of haze which washed the gray sky in circles. Ta da ta da ta da da ta da, ta da ta da ta da da ta ta da.
White flowers, white white flowers bloomed and died like her crotch on a shady mountainside. A slopy mountainside. An easy mountainside but a nightening mountainside.
That night she had heard him again…just to laugh at his words. So phony when not sung. So phony when read out aloud. And his illiteracy. But he sucked her in and then took a knife and popped her. She quietly burst into seventeen lakh tiny balloons smiling peacefully at the mountainside and the fast moving clouds of the sky. Floating down down down…ta da ta da ta ta ta ta da da. Ta da ta da ta ta ta ta da da. She loudly burst into an explosion from a very hot air balloon…Boom! and cried out aloud, “Please! Do me! For pity’s sake!”
Ta da ta da ta da da da ta da, he nonchalantly went on. Oblivious of all her desire. Or too aware of it. What a cruel, cruel man!… What a night of contradictions, heh.
She lay there almost in tears. Reduced to an inescapable, uncontrolled need to touch herself. She cried and laughed at the pathetic-ness of it. She laughed and cried at the love of it. She shouted out loud at all he was capable of.
“Oh! Oh! Oh!,” she moaned into the darkness as she imagined herself dying on an empty hillside. Herself orgasming on a pretty hillside. While all of humanity danced around her playing Ring-a-Ring-o’-Roses. Wavy, in waves. Pink, purple, blue and gray. Curling fingers. Curling toes. Filled with an occasionally elusive, occasionally formful fog that was him. Speckled with rain she could feel on her tongue. Just out of her reach.
Helpless. Helpless…so helpless, oh! “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!,” she shrieked out twenty times in frustration and in hope. “Oh! Fuck!” One last time. One first time. Please, oh please! She begged.
She was stripped of all dignity, ready to flow like melted vanilla icecream. He had been so sudden, so out of blues, it did not even hit her when she had to fight him. “Fuck!,” she said again, in realisation of her humiliation. “Fuck!,” she said for using so many -tions. She turned him off. She would not, could not listen to him. It was not worth it. So not. He died, throttled suddenly. Same way he had come. Out of blues. Moos.
Calmer now, she wondered if she would be (could be?) born from him if they sexed. Li’l Bo Peep has lost her sheep and can’t tell where to find them. That night she swallowed nineteen million stars from the deep blue sky and came them out of her vagina in a van Gogh painting. And twenty five minutes later, she still wanted to hump the bedpost.