He Demands by T.W. Selvey


Oh, the tragedy and the cunnilingus. Gutsy, the erudite cunnilingus I digested, reeked of a skunk carcass bubbling up on the highway’s edge.


He demands spine tingling horror ass fantasies, netherworld camps, chain link romps, steamy wall-to-wall cryptozoology. He demands.


Efficiency and a quick release form, give it a go, and then give it a rest, otherwise you will cause a long scrape and a dual pustule sore to perch on the slot, says page 72 of April’s Cosmo, but Helen Gurley Brown’s sagacious advice dies the more my deep readings bore into the tangy pockets enfolded in morgue reports on old wave essentialism.


Has he lost his grip? Or does he have the best grip, gripping a castrated world by its balls?


The movie bombed. A woman directed the video direct to video so it is safe to say the men’s power glands manipulated box office ticket sales and the bombing movie flew overhead and lit Dresden on fire. They fucking deserved it. Persistent burning in the intrauterine the internecine device. The device is a symptom. Fire the generals, set the war on fire, fight war with war, the war priests roared, racing Jeeps, leaping tanks, and forwarding junk email about Mandarin plots to grandma.


Cunnilingus is the new purpose of war. This is indeed the life, the high life, and I’m a low life running a guerilla war on the meaning of life, twisted up in damp pillows, a sticky vinyl sheet, and an amputated pantyhose leg.


I have a right to one wish, he demands. Let me master the skill of cunnilingus and then I will wield my teeth as a weapon. Yes, unparallel teeth are concealed behind pursing lips. Lip smacking linguistics. Rancid. Registered as horny on a docket at the county health department. Registered as a stealth monster truck, as a ten-year-old boy’s wet dream, while licking a warm Subaru hood, quaking expectantly in front of the motor vehicle department. I took an anthropological perspective on her slot machine. Fuck, just imagine those speech patterns running down her leg. Rancid flavor. I learn to shoot straight, just like a pee stream. I’m not pathetic.


I could come straight through her imploded biological needs. The alterity of sex needs to harmonize erotic love as procreation and as assassination. He is unsatisfied. Urge mouthwatering cunnilingus to kill every person registered on the face of this planet. I can’t fuck among these cretinous spirits, dropped off at a tantalizing landfill and told to take my pick of moribund runway models and dusty bags gearing up to look attractive. I can’t fuck the half-cooked tissue whipped together by a local amateur chef. A ghost waltzes in the formal dining room carrying a pewter tray of tendentious genitals, a varietal bouquet of procreative sauce reductionism drizzled on a Sapir–Whorf carcass.


What happens when I spread apart control mechanisms? No, you taste predetermined! You, the innate recipe, never programmed the delicate flavor and I watched you gush out of my mouth as a sloppy mess on my bed, an unconscionable crime!


I am bloodthirsty!

Eat. Fuck. Kill.

Where is she, the one who means more to me than eat, fuck, kill?

She needs some intelligent cunnilingus.


A kit came in the mail. A festering box sat on his doorstep. Insatiable rats nibbled on the corners of the package. Who sent it? A feminine note promises spine tingling horror ass fantasies, netherworld camps, chain link romps, steamy wall-to-wall cryptozoology. But he must comply with the instructions, the note demands.


The kit includes a ragged blade, a custom KY napalm jelly blend, and instructions on how far below the elbow to begin sawing. A fist for the fucking needs a sturdy handle, a handmade herringbone grip on an ulna. Look at the intricate carving! It’s the last thing his hand did before the amputation.

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