Saturday Night Jizm-Jive
(Dedicated to Mr. Cobb)

Gracie P?

You wanna hear more re: this scribbler’s fancy with the glorious Gracie P? You really do?

You asked.
Member that.

All I’m sayin’.

First, though, you all who haven’t had the pleasure of a gander at the glorious Gracie P, click yourself an eyeful anywhere right here.

See that? She is f-ah-ha-ine. Is she not? ‘Course, beyond her f-ah-ha-ine-ness this scribbler don’t know the first thing ‘bout the glorious Gracie P.

What this scribbler will tell you, is that a boy, a boy not only can, but a boy, he WILL, and he DOES dream. ‘Course this boy writing these words—this scribbler’s scribblings you’re eyeing right here, right now—he ain’t likely ever to set foot in the same room as a room in which the glorious Gracie P is present. Aw, but, he’s lucky bein’ in the same hemisphere, let alone the same solar system. This boy’s got it made just havin’ spotted her heavenly heart-heaving sight once.

the less,
she doth take on a life she will never ever know.

A good thing for her.

Like it or not, Gracie P, you’ve got yourself a little corner in this scribbler’s mind carved out ‘specially for you. Dedicated memory. Partitioned-off human hard drive. RAM, revved and ready to shoot its load. No way you’re gonna Ctrl-Alt-Delete outta this one, baby. No way ever at all. You cannot reboot your pulchritudinous jpeg out of this operating system. Consider yourself hard-wired. ‘Least, you’ve got this scribbler hard-wired. Presently.

Even still and ever still, in this scribbler’s little bit more than little bit moist media-playing dream, he, himself, is but a slave-boy to the glorious Gracie P. Even still; ever still, in this sheet soaking, looped over and over dream, he ain’t nuthin’ more than a flesh and blood pissoir for the glorious Gracie P.

For a fact, he glazes his futon cover-to-cover every time he “eyes” her squatted above, squeezing her shit an’ squirting her piss into the intestinal void ringed with his ever-waiting, curled-wide lips. Lips curled-wide to cracking—this human latrine—this personal pleading “Pleeeease!” Port-O-Potty. Yes, indeed, lips curled-wide cracking dangerous desperation for a ChapStick smear-over. ‘Cause he’s always crouched there, waitin’.

Wide open; waitin’.

You did, after all, ask.

Anyone else got anythin’ to ask?

Popular posts from this blog


Use The Hole