Dumb bastard sons of whores FOAD

No one who drops snorkel and mask into the sewer of humanity surfaces with an opinion of people better than when they dove. Only the saints and madmen see the illusion for what it is; both interchangeable groups are useless to the world. Miserable grasping human.

My heart will not be still, it swings from attraction to impulse and back, craving like a caffeinated spider monkey. Take a chainsaw to the brain, squeeze the trigger, run it down the middle of the skull until it or you stalls.

A woman masturbates for the camera. Her wide smooth hips cradle one sliding hand, her moans are stained glass in the temple of her orgasm. She is coming, electrons push needles of light into my eyes; she’s coming hard, air vibrates with glass beads. Blood races for the goal, the tip of my prick bursts in a red cloud instead of white. Lava falls into the ocean with a hiss.

I read opinions and insults on the glowing screen, poorly-spelled shockwaves that stir the sludge of my chained life. I long to reach through the line and tear out the throats of this enemy called Fellow Men.

The angels continue to cower. My aunt died and I don’t care. The deaths of the cats will be far worse.

Time again for sleep, for rape. Sleep is rape, yet even as victim I can’t get enough. Exhaustion is perpetual breathing out, never in.

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