freelance vagina walks two flights of stairs
checks her machine for her unanswered prayers
on the street nightly, she fucks millionaires
multi sized cocks play musical chairs
mixing elixirs, semen and eggnog
whiskey and cola, and thats just the prologue
vaginal taste is of tuna and slawdog
shadow from clit could scare away groundhog
used to think she would be on the big screen
till she was fucked in the ass at fourteen
saint or a hooker, theres no in between
suck a dick once, and soon its routine
acidic jizzum - esophagus rots
alcohol poison from too many shots
suicide visions corrupting her thoughts
death (for a hooker) is all time allots

what is it with mad max? is he really mad? i say hes not. i say hes run-of-the-mill-bleak-wasteland-future-protagonist max. theres simply nothing mad about him. cept for those piercing blue eyes.

mad max

the amc channel for some reason loves the mad max movies

that makes me want to seal the rim of my asshole around a girls vagina and deposit a greasy turd right into her canal

heres a poem i wrote in 98 while in honduras

dead little boy in a uterus cave
sucks his dead thumb with indifference
place of conception now vaginal grave
synapses ceased in an instant
prenatal penis will never know sex
matter of fact, he’s already
inside the only vagina he’ll get
moistened with mucus and sweaty
how, might you ask, did the young baby die?
seemed his surroundings were cozy
daddy’s balls suffered from oversupply
and one night his pecker grew nosy
ejaculation! it flooded her vag
drowning the baby in dick pus
saddened, she stood, squatted over the trash,
ridding herself of the carcas