Excerpt from a narrative project. The eroticism and transgression are themes present in my book The Perpetual Vigil, between the lines of some poems the brutal act of torture, the open wound as laughter, the eccentric eye. Is this a sly tribute to others, who in themselves dictated these words.
I. Agape
To Ezequiel D'Leon Masis, erotomaniac, pornographer and Baroque.
Your body, in the shadow of a lamp that casts its glow over the rosy purple of your sex, looks like a wafer suspended from a high sea clinging to the pathetic language of corporate redemtoris that swings in systole and diastole rhythmic. A stream of salt runoff on the grooves of your navel. Upgrades neck and glimpse into the attacks that remote visibility of the drill that corrodes your body, short sharp glimpse veins, swollen, driven into the recess crowned hirsuta by a red ring of fire, that devours, swallows, swallows, impatient, inflamed my dome light vigil.
Your body, in the shadow of a lamp that casts its glow over the rosy purple of your sex, looks like a wafer suspended from a high sea clinging to the pathetic language of corporate redemtoris that swings in systole and diastole rhythmic. A stream of salt runoff on the grooves of your navel. Upgrades neck and glimpse into the attacks that remote visibility of the drill that corrodes your body, short sharp glimpse veins, swollen, driven into the recess crowned hirsuta by a red ring of fire, that devours, swallows, swallows, impatient, inflamed my dome light vigil.
She watches us.
I know from your niche candles flickering, nubile phalanges resemble phalluses, passes through a cave resistant to these ongoing assaults and nervous. Licking the corners of his mouth, chews with his nails shy nipples until they bleed, blood and moisture mixing sex on her fingers, then put into your mouth, over and over again until his hands, mouth and convulsed with violent sex spasms.
You go,
you undress, in my bed I can see your totem animal skin, the curve of your ass erect tits erect and sharp, the mound of hair under the blind spot of your navel. I know that under that piece of light is probably your face, but today, right now I do not care. Your dog's eyes baccalau disturbed in this theater of pleasure, only serve to remove them to remove them from their orbits and then insert my tongue in the holes orphans, masturbating and dropping ash on that my soft embarrassed face, in ecstasy, oblivious to The metallic feel that caresses your back and is drawing up a text of cracks in the geometry of your flesh.
to contemplate the scene from a darkened corner of the room. Quiet, yet color variations produce a bloodless plug on that amalgam red lead on the bed. Not bodies, are fragments of an unfinished writing that he will perpetuate the infinite through the paint. Her mouth lying on the bed, you penetrate the viscous spiral lacerated her anus, the stench of human blood smiles at me, they say, you say. The stench of shit with the iron taste of blood is all that matters. To hell with art, writing and language. This is my hand reaching down to the base of my lamp in sailing, plunger bright, fleeting and disguised witness you scrutinize the vast opening for radio and the volume of this cock arched , entering, leaving, entering, smeared with the substance dripping rojambarina by corners of the smile infected. This is my hand, my fingers scrutinizing each hole near you: your ass, my ass, your mouth, my mouth, the wound in your belly with your bowels scattered on the bed, river from your eyes away.
I'll watch, perched on the rump
my mother, I see how tight your lashes long pendulum that slot porous, that gangrene stinking of urine and feces, she bites her lips parted exhausted sheets, sometimes you finger drills and blood drained from my den I can hear the sound of your voice that you deposit in your ears: she is watching. As always, I speak, I obey, I know that you like, order me, ask me masturbate; then enter my fingers into my pussy and I am a cave waiting for your mandrake spotless, your faceless torso serpentine undermining, caress my infant nipples erect, red, hot, I see the sharp pleasure in your pupils dilated, furiously ejaculating inside their rectal cavities, I can feel the tremors on my ass, I tremble, gasp, sob, I'm my mother and my phalanx phallus you deposit your poison translucent scorpion, see, here I wait.
II rite or escatolicofálico escatolúmpeco
Ochre, opaque sound sickening bursts in space where your body contorts as bath salt in lifeless slug. Oyster hidden in the navel of origin anxiety in the pendulum filled and buzzing between your thighs, she blasted loose hair on his shoulders, his oseatura unnamed pale, his brow raised and narrowed eyes, a martyr of sexual intercourse in ecstasy, Tantric rise. With white pupils she shakes her head, watching you, try to recognize your face the telltale sign that says I am: the shaggy eyebrows together, who gallops in the garden of your recess forks. Then you say the words, just muttered in his ear, a gesture of disgust instead of your mouth birth, but you know always the same. In the room where seconds before ocher, dull sound burst, four walls stained and weightless nausea rising to the nostrils: two square meters for two high: the toilet, your body open and ready for the rite, it has also, your body on the verge of laughter, open your body, your body open and laughter of an eye opening, opening, and the first drops, amber dark on your face and laughter ... and bodies ...
I know from your niche candles flickering, nubile phalanges resemble phalluses, passes through a cave resistant to these ongoing assaults and nervous. Licking the corners of his mouth, chews with his nails shy nipples until they bleed, blood and moisture mixing sex on her fingers, then put into your mouth, over and over again until his hands, mouth and convulsed with violent sex spasms.
You go,
you undress, in my bed I can see your totem animal skin, the curve of your ass erect tits erect and sharp, the mound of hair under the blind spot of your navel. I know that under that piece of light is probably your face, but today, right now I do not care. Your dog's eyes baccalau disturbed in this theater of pleasure, only serve to remove them to remove them from their orbits and then insert my tongue in the holes orphans, masturbating and dropping ash on that my soft embarrassed face, in ecstasy, oblivious to The metallic feel that caresses your back and is drawing up a text of cracks in the geometry of your flesh.
to contemplate the scene from a darkened corner of the room. Quiet, yet color variations produce a bloodless plug on that amalgam red lead on the bed. Not bodies, are fragments of an unfinished writing that he will perpetuate the infinite through the paint. Her mouth lying on the bed, you penetrate the viscous spiral lacerated her anus, the stench of human blood smiles at me, they say, you say. The stench of shit with the iron taste of blood is all that matters. To hell with art, writing and language. This is my hand reaching down to the base of my lamp in sailing, plunger bright, fleeting and disguised witness you scrutinize the vast opening for radio and the volume of this cock arched , entering, leaving, entering, smeared with the substance dripping rojambarina by corners of the smile infected. This is my hand, my fingers scrutinizing each hole near you: your ass, my ass, your mouth, my mouth, the wound in your belly with your bowels scattered on the bed, river from your eyes away.
I'll watch, perched on the rump
my mother, I see how tight your lashes long pendulum that slot porous, that gangrene stinking of urine and feces, she bites her lips parted exhausted sheets, sometimes you finger drills and blood drained from my den I can hear the sound of your voice that you deposit in your ears: she is watching. As always, I speak, I obey, I know that you like, order me, ask me masturbate; then enter my fingers into my pussy and I am a cave waiting for your mandrake spotless, your faceless torso serpentine undermining, caress my infant nipples erect, red, hot, I see the sharp pleasure in your pupils dilated, furiously ejaculating inside their rectal cavities, I can feel the tremors on my ass, I tremble, gasp, sob, I'm my mother and my phalanx phallus you deposit your poison translucent scorpion, see, here I wait.
II rite or escatolicofálico escatolúmpeco
Ochre, opaque sound sickening bursts in space where your body contorts as bath salt in lifeless slug. Oyster hidden in the navel of origin anxiety in the pendulum filled and buzzing between your thighs, she blasted loose hair on his shoulders, his oseatura unnamed pale, his brow raised and narrowed eyes, a martyr of sexual intercourse in ecstasy, Tantric rise. With white pupils she shakes her head, watching you, try to recognize your face the telltale sign that says I am: the shaggy eyebrows together, who gallops in the garden of your recess forks. Then you say the words, just muttered in his ear, a gesture of disgust instead of your mouth birth, but you know always the same. In the room where seconds before ocher, dull sound burst, four walls stained and weightless nausea rising to the nostrils: two square meters for two high: the toilet, your body open and ready for the rite, it has also, your body on the verge of laughter, open your body, your body open and laughter of an eye opening, opening, and the first drops, amber dark on your face and laughter ... and bodies ...
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