Magdalene said that we went to the same primary school. I felt rotten that I'd forgotten, so I
began kissing her instead, and told her "well, thank God you have tits
now or I'd never have fucking noticed you before." She didn't say
anything after that, and I fucked her until she couldn't keep quiet any
longer.
I don't understand God. Fucking Christians.
And Muslims.
And Jews.
God is a human creation.
And he is bisexual.
Once I travelled back in time. I saw myself dying on a cold, wet cobblestone street. I was naked, my lips turning blue and my cock shrinking down into a shrivelled white embarrassment. I was laying as if I was about to be autopsied. I yelled at myself until I woke up and realised I was covered in bruises and bitemarks.
My grandfather used to have a small private chicken farm. Chickenery. I plucked them, one feather at a time. I didn't know that a chicken could feel. I wonder if it's the same as pulling hair off a human's head.
My mother said it was Magdalene's fault.
I corrupted Saint Magdalene.
Idea: A tall mysterious black man walks into an empty storeroom, where he sees broken glass and rotten eggs. He walks to the other side and discovers an array of old porn magazines, covered in real hairy beavers. The camera rolls back as he takes off his clothes and an en-shadowed woman appears and undresses. Camera fades to black.
Magdalene never wore t-shirts with good bands because the good bands didn't make any t-shirts. Fashion was a means of making money for the man, and god knows we hate the man.
I can still smell the musky sweet mixture of sweat, coconut shampoo, and cheap vanilla deodorant on her violet Analogs teeshirt, spotted with my come.
I don't understand God. Fucking Christians.
And Muslims.
And Jews.
God is a human creation.
And he is bisexual.
Once I travelled back in time. I saw myself dying on a cold, wet cobblestone street. I was naked, my lips turning blue and my cock shrinking down into a shrivelled white embarrassment. I was laying as if I was about to be autopsied. I yelled at myself until I woke up and realised I was covered in bruises and bitemarks.
My grandfather used to have a small private chicken farm. Chickenery. I plucked them, one feather at a time. I didn't know that a chicken could feel. I wonder if it's the same as pulling hair off a human's head.
My mother said it was Magdalene's fault.
I corrupted Saint Magdalene.
Idea: A tall mysterious black man walks into an empty storeroom, where he sees broken glass and rotten eggs. He walks to the other side and discovers an array of old porn magazines, covered in real hairy beavers. The camera rolls back as he takes off his clothes and an en-shadowed woman appears and undresses. Camera fades to black.
Magdalene never wore t-shirts with good bands because the good bands didn't make any t-shirts. Fashion was a means of making money for the man, and god knows we hate the man.
I can still smell the musky sweet mixture of sweat, coconut shampoo, and cheap vanilla deodorant on her violet Analogs teeshirt, spotted with my come.
No comments:
Post a Comment