Perception defined thru the godless cunt, her lids sewn shut... The screaming lies and suicides rendered ever muted between her muffled thighs. The bomb of crunk, the junk, the trunk, politicized my spunk. The labium lullaby quiets the storm, the stink of the siren never gone from the smell. The gorgeous swell from the sinuous well, and the spirituality of the perfect tit. To skin and soft, and hair caress to touch and bless. God is the release, not the cure, never true always sure. Toes to skull, in the wraps of the softest crawl... I climb in to the jaw and bite. Soft is wet and wet is sweet, and every fingertip complete from brain to feet. Always visible but what isn't seen? Never truth, the vein is weak. Cuts are deep, scars are prized the dieing never ceased. As I walk thru the valley of the shadow of breasts its mystery fails me. I lose and get lost. I'm warmed by the frost. The unattainable goal never vanquished... yet the stink never washes, it never can. The smell… the smell… the royalty in the smell is what we chase. The face, the grace, always the race, but never the goal. It can't be won. It will never be possessed… Always at the end of the hand, but never in the grip... it can't be consumed but will consume your doom. The heaven of the death, in the rapture of her breath on the neck. The snake wrapped around your heart, the spiny angel wing, the fresh of spring. Close in senses, far in sense. The end of our suffering the beginning of dread. Lost in the silhouette stink forever and always to death. Steal my breath, it was always your to take.

Do you smell it in the air? The wind is picking up. The sky is growing dark. The sound pounding beyond the hills and the light that flashes thru the trees heralds the tempest. The circling vortex gathers power, quaking windows, rumbling distantly always slowly nearer, sending the pets running under the couch. Quiet like a train, looming as it spreads ready to unleash its destiny. Its whirling sodden arms picking up your skull by the eye holes and rattling your fucking brain, vibrating your spine, filing your lungs with piss, cracking bones and crawling your skin until your heart shatters into sticky dark bits that burst to flame and travel instantaneously thru your veins until you drown in your own sour tears…The perfect storm of despair

Life is sometimes a rotten ass load of shit. The infection of fear and doubt is always creeping into our often desperate lives. It corrupts the soul and bleeds the spirit, and can manifest hopelessness. You can’t save the world, you can’t stop the tragedy that life will forever be spiked. Even when it levels its aim at those you care most dearly or strikes it’s harsh gaze in your own personal direction. The built-in mechanism drilled into our heads at the factory, to better process our daily quagmire of our seemingly ineffectual lives, is the apparatus of diversion… it’s what saves our minds from eating off it’s own foot to escape the trap of constant loathing. It’s what gives the voices in our heads something else to talk about. Something else for our complex minds to eat that isn’t as hard to chew or digest. It’s what betters our self image and forges it into a tool of strength which begets a higher yield of self confidence to collect the broken pieces of our souls and possibly adhere them once more unified... Diversion is the enemy of insanity.

FlapJoy.