Dick DungeonI descend to your basement dungeon and your back is to me.I wait till your interest wavers my way,Then we descend to the cigarette-burned sheets you: as a human, and me: a slab of meat.I watch the horizon of the ashy mattress move up and down as my body goes up and down under your body going up and down.I'm filled head to toe with fire while you're filled with desireand my flames are fed as you perspireand they die out as you empty out your desire milk into my change boxand they're gone as you explode and expire I'm filled with third degree burns. your sheets were on fire.you turn your back to me again and I just want to grab onto your spine like a book, turn you around and read you.but you are a god and I am a dick dungeon.
MindelThe sun was smiling down on the green grass that afternoon. A light breeze carried wisps of dandelion seeds through the air. They landed restfully in Mindels ash-blonde hair as she pressed into the pedals of her bike, surging forward along the rocky road. Her wheels spun and spit small stones behind her, leaving a path of dust. She was headed along the ravine to the lake. Shuffling and shaking noises came from inside the box that was sturdily fastened to the back of her bicycle. She rode over the grass, nearing the mouth of the lake. She came to an abrupt stop and the box made one last clatter as its contents ricocheted off the inner cardboard walls. The sun beamed down over Mindels fair complexion like a blanket of light and she lifted her head and smiled back. She dismounted her bike and sidestepped to the back of it to untangle the tape and string that held the box to the bike
merely, simply, only ...we were blowing bubbles: transparent spheres of liquid, locked in a less-than-passionate embrace,held together - holding shape - by the laws of physics alone.containing fragile fragments of forgetful fancies ...we were just blowing bubbles.