Dancing dreams over streams of lightning. My brain is fried rice; your hands delightening. Totally cavernous, and almost incestuous; your wrists are bound by mustard eloquence. Queens beans scenes on stages; pages without wages, and slaves in conclaves. Your anus my innards, your penis, my skin hurts just thinking about your gym shoes on my lips; your sweaty cunt on my knee. You picked me up by my underwear and hung my on some trees. I spit on your lungs, my farts on your tongues. Some senses smell and some fences swell. Your ass hurts? My toes squirt. This is my handbasket, your fucking hell in my palms. Weren't you standing over me laughing last night? Well the foot is on the other asshole now, isn't it? Six minutes to swing the world around and around. I only need four minutes to kill all hope, to swallow all sense. Multiple orgasms, supposedly forcing choices. But we surpass all muscles, all purple nights. Winter is my hole. No one finds me anymore, and that's ok. You can find me, unwind me, follow me, into the rabbit hole. jack ass. 1234567891011. In twenty seconds I can steal your gods and seal your fate. with one word. nil.
I always knew I would be a writer, ever since I was 9 years old and I got my first A++ on a creative writing assignment. I suppose I should wonder if I do it for the promise of approbation. In any event, I never actually did become a writer. I became a lawyer. Now I am 40, and wondering whether I will ever fulfill my potential as a writer. I like the idea of the 6 minute story, because that seems to be all my brain can give at any one time to the deep, empty pocket that is my audience. If you leave me comments, and dare I wish, approbation, then perhaps I will expand my ouvre and fulfill my destiny.