- Erotic Poetry
- Corn Fed
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Seems I'm dreaming of being the lazy cheese between two firm grilled slices of bread. Replaying fantasy and horror. Matching up who plays who. He wore red and black. Spoke German. Eyed me up like a car crash. Watched me watch him. The other's dusty cowboy swagger. Voice. Guitar. Questionable ethics. Corn fed. They are nothing at all like the two I fell between before, I swear. [merde!] The air sign fuels the fire sign. Flames lick and spit.
For SS, in each and every way.
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