I want to suckle a pair of great big cum cow tits.

Make it two pairs.

Make it three triplicities.

I want to milk and be milked by a pair of leathery, frost-hardy hands.

I want the black tar cum of the black hole sun.

I want the liquid selenite of an Aphroditian scallop shell.

I want to fuck you in a blazing war zone in front of Martians.

I want to fuck you in a flaming dumpster like the trash we are.

I want to fuck you like an animal in a barnyard, or the zoo,
and while I’m fucking you I want to feel like I am you.

I want you to fuck me like an animal at the zoo, or in a barnyard,
and while you’re fucking me I want to feel like I am you.

I want to feel like I am me.

I want to be vortexed into an ocean of pure porn consciousness,
the ocean of pure porn consciousness that is forever all around us,
at the source of base instinct.

I want the feeling of vortices like feelers in every aperture,
feelers in my soul, heart, and brain holes.

I want a lot of nonsense, erotic grotesque nonsense,
nonsense the divinest sense, always.

I want it the way it feels in my sexual fantasies,
in which my head is a camera,
in which I am always the gonzo,
in which I am everyone pictured and not pictured.

I want you to pop that pussy, Justine Beaver,
and show me your pussy, Michael Douglas.

I want to internalize something other than misogyny.

I want to externalize The Dick Inside
and sodomize Bobby Peru in a urinal stall
and force him to return the favor.

I want Super Sex that feels like being engulfed in waves
and drowned in flames and crucified and hanged
and suicide-bombed and waterboarded.

I want the golden showers of Zeus
disguised as the celestial cum cow
and the water sports of Vladimir Putin
disguised as just a regular cum cow.

I want nothing,
the John Cage nothing,
the Nicholas Cage nothing,
the nothing that is a pleasure.