Carl Miller Daniels
the utter persistence of the blue carpet
was entrapment by twine.
micro-fibre tendrils crept from
beneath toes and ensnared actual
flecks of human skin.
shin splints were miraculously healed.
the certainty of absolution was
in question, but so joyous were
the glad tidings brought noisily
into the room by sweaty handsome naked
big-dicked young men that
the churches rang their bells
for days on end, the mice
munching away at the tired
grease on every finger tip was
the watchword. young man cocks and young
man assholes were generously lubricated,
annointed for the mission at hand.
the pants of orgasmic pleasure
were rivaled only by the vast
uncertainty of the universe,
the doubts as to whether joy
really existed solely in the tip
of the penis, and in the inner recesses
of the prostate-guarded asshole, or was
simply a state of purity, a matter
of the soulful mind.
meanwhile, the blue carpet didnt
just lie there and take it.
it offered sanctity, the full force
of textile revolution, the fascination
with the beautiful naked skin
of super-sexy young men, bared to
the world, the religion of
pleasure and the ascent of
joy, a real situation, a
counterpoint to all the
milk-fed poppies which
grow wild and orange under the
terrifyingly hot white rays
of the noonday sun, and not just
underfoot, as has been
intimated so fucking many times
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