A Study In Cow Pelt and Citrus

Part two

Eddy Cruise,
Cow Pelt

I have claimed myself unworthy of indulging in you. I am but a simple apparatus meant for closing an open leather circuit unto itself- myself. Cursed by some misanthropic creator, we are burdened to experience a lucid monologue without the power of parlance. It is anguish that we feel in ourselves upon recognizing our supreme inability to let loose our lips and dribble life from our fecund mouths. We are two inanimate beings sentenced to a lustful life void of definition. Yet here you are, lying in two unequal parts on this homely table, your piquant vibrance numbing the pain of a burdened existence. What are we to do with one another? How could my prong, this virile horn, ever pierce into your cooing underbelly with proper consummation? I hear you say, in that voice of yours that echoes the soothing drone of the outside air within a flash of nostalgia, “Well, if we can’t speak our thoughts, shouldn’t we just do them? Why don’t you come over here and make me burst at my celluloid seams.”

Then let the thoughts cease and the sploofing commence. I’m gonna rock you, I’m gonna sock you, I’m gonna pick you up and drop you. Raising my head now, the lone slice of your body becomes cast under my belt like an innocent plot of grass under a ride-on mower. And here I come to rip you to shreds. In a burst of inanimate energy, my metal bit meets the flesh, inseminating the sterile air with your untainted juices as they are emancipated from their cellulose cage. O, but the walloping can’t cease here, orange love. You take your incomplete body, and under it, I become the nothing I’ve always deserved to be. That’s right, keep compressing yourself under your own weight, I love the way your sharp secretions trickle down my prong. I feel as if I could decimate you with one quick flick of my nickel coated face, but I allow my self-control to take the reigns. Out of juice? There’s always more juice, you just need some help letting it. But you know this already, you knew what would come of this. You turn over to rest on the dome portion of your body, and there’s that look again. Only this time you’re not asking for anything, you demand it. I measure the angle perfectly, letting my virile horn dangle over the white core of planet “you”, hesitating in order to pull the invisible string farther from you. Are you ready? Here it comes- oops I’ve fooled you again. Not so quick. Now? Not quite. I could sit here until you rot. Look at me and let the air go stale. Feel this? Tranquility in the eye of this horn storm. Then- at once- a sharpness in your center, and again, and again, and now the bullseye has become unimportant- any points a good point for you, citrus freak. Darling, where is up? Where is down? The only place we can be certain of now is inside, we are moving too fast to comprehend the unimportant. I feel the loop of black leather that fastens my freak-frame to my tease-tail starting to tear, and my prong is making contact with the table. Rapidement! Rapidement! Black Angel bring us to Aphrodite’s gallows and allow us the orgasm of death!

✱ ✱ ✱

A thin inch of metal rests in a white-stained-yellow stew made with orange juice broth. A black leather strap idles vegetatively in the muck, detached from its brain. Serenity.


For more articles by Eddy Cruise, click here. To establish contact, email cruise.eddy@surrealtimes.net.

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