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Tuesday, January 25, 2011

The Forgery of the Wishing Well

the dick is more powerful than the brain. the birds in their nest. drove a knife into the heart of him who had been turned into a moribund toy. how many men must have fallen in her eyes. where beauty itself was drowning. they both nibbled at the torturous positions. mechanical dolls in the soft light of shadows. his own fantasies, like a pile of cocaine, bathed her face in mysterious shadows.

she was a sensitive woman. frozen in a waking nightmare. born before mirrors. in the pain of her fiery body rose monsters from beneath her bed. the kingdom of shadows. emotionless hallucinatory figurines. where orgasms shatter dreams and the gulf between lovers is as large as the distance between our wonder at the stars and the promised land of story books. anatomical positions do not exist in fairy tales. whispers would split the bloodsteam from passions too subtle to be touched. signs organized around a watched clock. they were like wishing wells. her hands would linger in the space she'd created in his chest. like the cock she'd masturbated in her fantasies. until the moment he'd told her that he was gay. delusions are of lovers, said the knife. they make our hopes seem real.

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