A Country of crock.

archaic faces dance in shadows

shining false veneers luminescent

like all the ones that have come before

without a word the bedsheets drawn

stoic eyes, glances forlorn

gentle carress spread evenly

thoughout the night like butter on toast

but instead of Country Crock there is

only s**t stacked in neat rows in which all the smiling people

take a bite and ask for seconds, my bones feel ike crumbling, brittle hands harden with each punch through your door, wanting the world to burn into ash before my very face.

like Nero

instead of a violin, it would be my c**k in hand, waving furiously like a Maestro

 

Reviews

[wolfshrew]

holy goodness