Mar 28, 2025
fictile
I'll call you Thug Jug. I'm Whatever. Stud's
go thud. “I'm doubtful/ that you'll get this, Thug
Jug” – Ugh. Like cricks in my flesh; those, “fluids
foam,” at your thoughts. Moist. Oozy. Eel & Slug
call me, “Ken.” I call them, “Eel & Slug.” Slew
caked banks shall slip their levee. Soon flood hell
waters will. “Make this about Fate,” you coo.
I do. Cocksure crevices. That rank shell
flange. Dope B-Grrl style. Barf me out. Gag me
with a spoon burned to steam crowded with holes.
Such are my moots. Sis Slug bytes. The moon bit
our brain. Soul's fictile skull. Eel's grace. Oozy
on the eyes. You won't find me, by the doe's
toes, hue and gasp, on all fours: sniffing up git.
