thank god,
i’m not him.
yet that’s no less,
no more,
just showing off them,
as if rally cries or custard pies
would do it for me,
as if she sings and I dance
as if I see one breast and fall
drooling sweaty
onto my knees and beg, pray, growl,
this is the majestic orange derision
portrayed by hot temptation
glassy eyed morbid space
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