Hymen lapse and Lapping sea

September 16, 2013

Driven from the castle (thrown out the window), Queens become ducks and circle the moat. Beck of the child King. Bread crumbs once a day on hot days. Swelling hot crumbs on the glistening surface of a pond, too. Man has made and maiden will peddle push a paddle boat out to the middle. Just a buoy, pregnant plastic place holder until the bravest little swimmers pass the ropes kicking. The ropes scratching gently their freed ankles. Dead weed bobble head sea monstress. Death and dying. Breath and breathing. Breed swell to quell the loneliness.

The association is maddening. Yr a pretty girl. Such a pretty girl. So handsome yr brother the picture on his license looks like a cis manchild of fifteen.

He takes it boating and forgets the lesbian shore. Witches have him tethered, just in case. Forgetting is part of the ritual. He will swim back all on his own so the tether wears, seaborne. The theory goes. No need to drag. Salt to the nylon eating thread by thread. Baptist by name and still calling it it. Are we sure, sisters? Are we true? Place a scrap of fur there, on his dick. Lay it there like a scrap on one of Oppenheim’s wooden fingers. Thus robed, he will remember once the forgetting is done. Glue it to his dick. Crazy glue is good for this. Nail it to a board. The whole thing. Dick to the board. Flanagan risen. Opie sunk in.

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