by Nick Demske
Show me your asterisks, the silky mullets of scintillation trailing from that comet. Show me your pentagrams, the blurred convexity broadcasts deemed more obscene than murder, or crack addicts, or four centuries and counting. I do love them hoes, which is oh so ungangster. I want to gazelle rush the soul barren world, but am stymied by gauntlet bazoombas. Starfucker, when will this culture's redeemer be free of its standards of beauty? The topless sunrise sizzzles. Show me your blackest of halleluja holes. Show me your celestial body double, spreading all ten of its legs. With these hooker hooves we teeter upon, who questions why our money maker shakes so polaroid picturesque? Sphincter is fancy for butthole. The difference between sodomy and intercourse is one of them feels especially good. Donkey punch me until I see, Starfucker. Stumpgrinder flashdance your Vonnegut footnote, pushing on a pull at the entrance of the A-list. Skeetly deetly deet. The homemade video leaked. Starfucker hottentot video vixen. The softcore sun rises like a big, fat you-know-what. The winking glory holes of night spit flirtation's folly. Beautystar, fireball, climb the sky's shoulders, peel the tank top from your torso. Melt the arctic from our bosoms. Show me your new day has come.
Etched in the tentacles that swaddle vacuum romantics. Trackmark’s in the night sky’s arm ditto this rhinestone ripplestitch. Western cut, long sleeve. No Steer spreads a handlebar broad enough to straddle the Cadillac's beak. Wide brim, round crown. Every gallon in your duncecap sloshing Thou Shalt Nots. Ya'll reckon this guitfiddle's twang soundtracks intervention? Hell No'm. Said Hell No'm, Lord.
The blues are in your veins, skyeater, honkytonk apacolleptic. I can turn a hiccup into heartache so lit splicketty every cowboy in the county'll howl into a six shooter's business end and blowww those lonesome notes like lil' do-ggies. When the wounded night falls, its cavities hemorrage spotlights. Why are you sweating? Why are you breathing like that? What's the matter thyou, boy?
The night is cool and I'm a fool each star's a guitar shaped pool as cold as ice. High. Lonesome. I'm going down in it three times. Guess how many thems Imma come up.
Balaclava terrorist fist bumps a goggle of cloroxy colleagues. Copywrite cliché, city of that ol’ nasty, the twinkles be spare teeth in syphilitic night. Skeetly deetly deet. The sex video leaked green night vision ecto like a promise like a promise, damn. That’s just a regressive stereotype. Swine love pearls. As much as any any puckersuck DUI, TTYN. The beauty star headlights we deer so thank-God. The world, we all warm our hands over the same blazing trash can. This unity. Smattering o dirty blond, jailbreak heiress, georgics sweep siren candy diddling your stupid cilia. The semi-automatic sunrise splashes bleach on your skin. That’s hot.
The starfucker makes a joke. Looks around to see who laughs. Halo noose pussy o, quench your canines, filed so, upon this furburger meadow. The simple life is death. See there—it flees a swerving limo’s brights. Poor immortal, waxed asshole, burkha designer name as far above your means and still. Through face shines moon as bone as skull. The fires of hell hath no light.
Naughty Mudflap Silhouettes
Paparazzi-flash volcanics. A blockbuster. A showstopper. By virtue a pyrotechnician. Organized sky fire. A sheet of tinfoil blasts sunlight goliaths. Me Likey. The fireworks snap flashbulb magica.
The Beauty Star likes shiny things. Flapper damsels decked in sequins. Towering junkyard metallics. The Beauty Star likes flashy things. Electric storms and tripping balls and bling cacophonies abating excess auricula. Go, Shorty. It's your birthday. May your sun be blown out like a cakeload o' candles. May your jazzercise class's spandex glisten a Hollywood sheen. Why does this screen's flicker hypnotize you so, dear? What primitive instinct has it refomented? The Beauty Star watches lightning through the screen door. The news cast in the next room warns of a sudden deluge. I know the knife is bad for me, but it glints so Vangogh in my nightlight. The Beauty Star likes shiny things for their abrupt reflections. It displays its naughty bits to unexpecting, innocent bystanders. Smile for me, daddy. Spread eagle lips, like curtains, drawn back to flash bazooka tooth supernova. The sun catapults like a flash of mad cameras. I won't be alive till I'm blind.
Naughty Mudflap Silhouettes
erased by Renee Beauregard
Click here to read from Self-Titled by Nick Demske.