#green jester

"J-just thinking about clowns and jesters!"

art trades for the Gacha World Amino!!

The world smells of harsh-sweet wood smoke. I have come inside to escape the sunset only To find you, incandescent, in a stifling room Akimbo and crazy for lack of penetration. Wet tunnel, and the lowering light and smoke, And your rising breasts calling for a hand. Your smooth ass stings my lips, bites the pusher Engorged and on the verge and thickening With my own lubrications; failing sunlight falls Like the hemispheres of your waspish buttocks Onto wet earth, stone spire, glad of the impaler You sink onto the coals and scream for more heat. This is the gate-storming, bound in arms The revolution surges inside, they are repulsed And constricted, but the insurgency renews; Ash stains the twilight red, turns your aeries red Where my infidel prick undoes the sanctified, Throws your dark books wide and steals all secrets. The ebb and fuck of centuries in one night, I am spreading the final seal, you the ring-giver, You the wide-mouthed angel unlatched from wing And groaning upon the throne—and what is revealed I have filled and refilled with my long ballista. Lie on the rack; lie on the smoke-black bed; Ready yourself; the end is a great flood coming.

Under the big top coming down And in the center ring This tangled pile of poles. I drag one free, the lions roar To the music of a panicked throng Under the big top coming down. No ringmaster, one proud clown Puffing and sweating to prop the roof, Dodging the elephant shit Under the big top coming down. The smell of popcorn and apocalypse Under the big top coming down. Back to the poles, and back, and back Like a little black duck Railing against a cartoon rabbit. The canvas sags in two hundred places Under the big top coming down. The harmonium screams, it is acrobatic Under the big top coming down. Watch me spit fire Into Death's eye. Back to the poles, back to the poles. Watch me swallow The sword-edge of truth. Back to the poles, and back, and back Like a white knight Caught in the trash compactor, Under the big top coming down.

Wakeful eyes, you are a rower skimming the muddy diamonds of a river where all the fish are sleeping, sleeping. Jay of blue-sky in a fall tree you are child clarity and remind me of sun on limestone walls of the perfect day to fly a kayak. The flame-orange leaf of attentiveness above all the dry litter of history singing purely for the wind of now. May you always draw in and never dwell.