To Feel and Be Felt

To feel and be felt–this is the border region between the heavenly jurisdiction and the denigration of my life’s afterthought.

To feel and be felt–is my fingers pressing against the inner cavity of her wet vagina, running through her matted pubic hair.

To feel and be felt–biting down on the corner of her lip as I drive deeper into her wet, aromatic vagina as she digs her fingernails.

To feel and be felt–blood drips down the gashes in my back as she convulses. “Fuck me, call me your nigger bitch,” she moans.

To feel and be felt–“fill me with your racist iconoclast, Black Aryan seed”, the pantyline crease of her inner thigh gleams, slippery”

To feel and be felt–Black Aryan of Love and Light, Psychic and Throbbing, Negroidic in Death’s Dark Slumber, Thrombotic Delight.

To feel and be felt–in the inner sanctum, you are… the inner sanctum, you are… a dying ray, passing, to be buried dimly.

To feel and be felt–I pull out my cedar-smudged penis, high, stagger to the bathroom mirror. Nude selfie, arm raised in Hitler salute.

To feel and be felt–Fuck Fascistbook, fuck Twitler, fuck Antiracism, the dying dystopia, its falsity the open secret of our era.

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