With her, I embarrass blankly

 (crumpled ball of used tin foil shuffling behind us like a child).  In the literal, sense, we bled actually.  Yes, the real stuff, fakers.

welcome to my home, an uncapped bottle of neon soda.  we have six maids, all of whom I fuck whenever I please.  They are adorable, incapable, posses high Body Mass Index measurements, scratch my flaking back with precision…whenever I please.

Perfect pussy pervades simply because it is pussy.  One woman is scratching my back at the moment while I fix myself a lemon cocktail.  Her nails: breaking skin.  My feet are in cold water.

Science is proving that it is possible for women to own rooms as men without cocks —

Science is proving that it is possible for a woman become a chauvinist.

Science is proving that this is not attractive.

Science is proving that you should kill me.

Science is not proving that I don’t get my way.


My masculinity is painfully experimentally painful [tight pants I glove myself into before school].  A round dish on a white square table brought into focus under a thick circular telescope.  Scientists are inherently feminine because they experience excrement from a distance through elegant objects (phallic in shape, which they grip tightly to arrest blood inside).  Requiring distance from inferior subjects, scientists can not help but plan a future where masculinity has ceased altogether.

Scientist to Me, a masculine trash-eater inside a petri dish, eating trash:

“Inside of your circular cage, organisms (cocks: YOU ) are snarfing up refuse.  You are masculinity, little snarfer.  You survive by consuming absolute trash!  The trash is refuse from your superior female counterparts (milky ejaculate from a maid’s pussy: US).  Stuff that is no longer privileged, a relic of its own expulsion – only the moment of it. It’s biohazard, the ejaculate.  Science proves this because I said it did.”

Scientists call the process of trash-production “orgasm” — a convulsion wherein a gardenia blooms, unforced.

I know nothing about trash-production (moment of exquisite power) because I am scum, which science proves because I am masculine which science proves  and am able only to get my way by way of force and by pouting with an insecure erection.  When you take my force (trap me in a little glass circle) all I do is eat trash.  And get fat.  And slobber onto my cock with lips like empty sails.

And think over and over about when I was still inside of her — that I’d never felt closer to a flavored sleep.