I think your mom is in some ways very fragile. The voluntary implosion of orgasm, impacted; the voluptuous clip. Our wooden Sweetleaf grinder rips pungent buds to sliver-shake, to be rolled. Ah, the older I get, the more I need gender. Then I use a Graphix cigarette-rolling machine.
Megumi despairs of ritual, which relates or boils down to or signifies erosion, one of the many ways you and I are fucked by weather. It comes into our bedroom as we sleep; its mouth is open, but there's no sound, just the pale shear of its cold flesh shelling moonshine in pink grunt ripples. Sometimes after midnight it's possible to swim the air, so thick with silence, I'm wiping it on my pants. These are done, Megimi: ripped by kittens and ripped by kittens.
It takes believing in that cry, the one whose sour fingers curl raucously around your throat as you're singing. I fuck in the sun all day long as long as Megumi, and her hunger pawing my brain bats bastard outlets across someone else's cold floe.
I think your mom is in some ways yawning, blinking tiny girl-eyes so she can see more clearly what I wish. I think your mom watches us sleeping, and maybe she forgives me if I choke once in a while. I know those blank fattened arches fall with leaving everything behind you; I know I love.
My hands around my throat, wringing out kisses.
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Megumi and The Historical: Pink Grunt Ripples
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Type: discussion