I can’t even count how many objects you so hawk

From your gaping maw with stains of nameless substances.

How your papers darken with forgotten liquids; bruised

Apple cores turn brown & yellow, swarmed with plump li’l flies.

Still I smell that odor sharp like needles splashed in piss;

Still I feel the stickiness that never shall subside,

Like the ghost of cream that streams out from a phallus cocked.

I desire to roll in you all day, pristine refuse,

For it is in you I know I truly should reside.

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