We departed dark basement gate 16 to Syracuse from the mess of New York's port authority terminal. All was silent as, everyone was OK with letting loquacious Jersey traffic do the talking for awhile. Yet, as we bumped and raged along, showing no mercy for potholes or lane-changing-horns, mouths began to move, and short words began to form. The sun was just scattered modes of light on the tired PA trees, when Jim from Jersey, sitting slightly behind and across the isle, began to talk to me. We quickly agreed that the Mayans were masters of the stars, kings of celestial bodies, resting in astronomical intricacies. We agreed that they weren't profits; and it was just by some sick twist of fate that the world is ending so close to such an infamous, arbitrary date. We agreed that life is crude and that, if we could, we'd make god fuck the asshole of the moon. And as the bus filled up with chatter, and weary sleepers waking up, we hit a dubious ...
Her hula-hoop sombrero-ed like spirals of galaxy dust, a hippy hue that held train-wreck breath for burgeoning slacks in the room, a catalyst of reactions that made the universe wait for her stop. He watched as if she didn't know his atoms had birthed the chemicals of sex. And, just for that it was unbuttoned, the barefooted pride of exposed skin - her hips often rolled the clocks of time like that two at a time, heedless as the fermented wheat gems that bounced around the planets in her gut. It was the bursts of orgone energy that ripped wormholes in her pants, the ratcheting gears of dawn that lured a morning suck and fuck, her endearing laugh that lead to tingly shotgun highs billowing there in the night as a culmination of his and her' auras spinning webs of light across the room: They both held out for the belly of the keg to burst For inebriation to drive them back to together For bees to pollinate a sticky affection so they'd never leave They...
The waves were impatient as she stared out; her smile cracked with mud like it was a dirty place to dip the wick - a purple hazed blowjob that would quickly turn down all the cum, before any dick could ever reach it's zenith. Only on late nights when it rained, when the precipitation crawled like sweat on skin, and Ontario's waters steamed harshly in the air, would her panties drip off, through the glides of talented motion. She was nothing less than a Scandinavian princess, waiting and ready to conquer, floating her pussy like a seaborne ship, head on through the waves; She maintained a shallow smile, a voyeuristic grin bent upside down, arms crushing the breath beneath propeller toes, always two strides ahead the gravity of the moon; And as the blueberry droplets fell off, physics no longer worked as a math of wavy hair, and the sugary whiplash of a Thursday night was finally felt again. - Nathaniel T. Hughes, September 2007
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