Hot and sticky drenched with eternity the milky come spurts out an equatorial softness the spit of god my prick is only the way for it the bridge over which these messengers travel, bursting forth marathon runners rushing to the front at the start of the race bringing their information that the war is over that we survived that no one can deny our history that all the ones who came before us stand in this room around our bed — Yes it’s crowded but who ever said evolution was comfortable? My Russian forebears stand far in the back keeping their fur overcoats on.
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