bulk soothe

he made himself a slothsnest, what he couldn't buy in any store, no dollarstore, no superstore, no drugstore... only his own handmaiden would serve - it caressed, and there was the barest hint of eros, the kind that won’t distinguish between a tickle and a giggle and a sigh and nirvana and an animal, a film thinning to vapour, with no olfactory trace, but sloven grace - the short wave called him, and he came, slow as you please, siamese, to see johnson still on the job, saying: the urethra needs ya, and ya need the urethra; no crowd pleaser, no cock teaser, and entirely too much

you and I, we can't get no slothsnest made for us, and he tried but he couldn't, but she, she might have succeeded, without trying, her contours seemed guided, as if they collided with a charmed prince and providence, and she glides with glib comfort, but i still think she falls short of sloth

he's got hypno-frequencies here, sopo-fragments there, and if his lies sting his eyes, in the fiction of third person, he'll change to i, shitcan the lie - and if only i could control the variables, the climate overwhelms the switchboard except in those special wax cylinder grooves - sacred ness self-immolates, a puckered graying potentate of dried flesh, good for snuff, ornaments that give off light and ambiance to calm the sense of shard and chafe and soft bones

soft bones say there's nothing to hone, you already own the rights to peace of mind, the royalties are trickling in, the truest posture is to lie - dim the lights, fade the volume to fifteen percent and lie - soothe in bulk, baby, it sounds okay to me, and i would lie – and remember to wake up amid rapid-eye-movement, and write down what you saw just before it fed the maw of grimy glass teeth, they’ll be testing you, but your only purpose is to impregnate data with disorder