Amidst writing several chapters of complex psychologically absurd drama, this bizarre love fritter slid out of my skull and stuck to my scratch paper like a viscid slug. I had to share it with you:
I’m standing on a corner in Winslow Arizona as hell-fire-god-of-death-sun-ray’s perpetually pernicious pain is shat upon my milky-pale and overly tender face flesh, blood-buttered thoughts of perverted insanity spiral like parasitic worms, wide-wedging the jagged fissure betwixt my cerebral hemispheres. A road-ragged whore mongrel of a morbidly repugnant cycloptic prostitute asks me, “Gotta cigarette?”
Standing there naked with my blade shredded cock, peeled banana style—fried pork skin tongued flesh-flaps draping repellent—desert-crackle-dried onto my bare-shaven-upper-inner thighs and splintered mop-stick stabbed up my ass pocket and I say, “Why yes I do have a cigarette you scrumptiously decadent and endlessly sexual beast of a witch-dog-stink-holed-harlot. Would you like a half-smoked mentholated Kool Filter King 100 or an unlit urine impregnated Camel unfiltered which was reportedly once clenched wetly between the sexually desirous testicle suckling lips of Julia Roberts at age eighteen?” I wrap my grime crusted unclean fingers around her lice-ravaged skull as our fluid sheathed tongues defile each other’s mouths. Two highbred patrician couples quick-draw-whip their camera-phones out to capture a Kodak moment for their nauseating blogs or to share with lovers on hot steamy midnight escapades.
She stands perplexed with confusion’s steaming vomit shellacking her vacuous gaze, plucks a blood-stuffed wood-tick from her strangled knot of pubic hairs—the two uptown aristocrats with white-bulbed eyeballs distending from choked occipital pockets blazing stares of non-belief—and says, “I’ll have the half-smoked mentholated Kool Filter King 100. I fucking hate Julia Roberts, she promiscuously slept with 47 men she met on movie sets. I might be the ugliest scab of female to ever walk the planet earth, but hey . . . I have class.
They built a putrid life of love-stench beneath the soul-frying Arizona sun, raised mongoloid triplets in an excrement stained Pueblo mud-tent, and lived three more years before dying of desert-scorched dehydration. The latest word is their rotting carcasses were picked clean by meat-hungry buzzards. Their three children (Poo-Poo, Skabb. and Bunk) were sold to a well-known nefarious biker gang and now star in underground sex films.