cut the dust

I

absolute bastard, I, have fallen back on the much too familiar and egocentric practice of putting my worst cock forward. limp as it may be. lumpen, as I may be, there is a presence of mind far too maligned to let a night slide without coming on unfamiliar breasts, and reveling in such tawdry debaucheries. my appetites have quantified and my desires have vilified. absolute bastard, I, now traverse dark corridors of slime and offal, wherein forever I cut the dust.

II

betwixt two chasms, I have littered my hovel with base control. I have met this challenge il voce. my lifeless throat has done me no good. pink light finds my eyes in this abattoir mentality. (Loki would be proud.)  ah yes, I now remember those moments of sexual aberration, wherein I mistook penetration for adoration. I mistook succubae for aficionada. looking east and west and north and south, and all minute points in between, scratching off zip codes like scabs. and always the uncanny ability to cut the dust.

III

thirsty, disenchanted and hung angry. 
loosing my ability to be gentle, hastily.
sacrifice is nothing more than reconcilement.
as we inter the many hatchets of our defilement.