Queerodactyl

Spandex leggings authenticating my anaerobic exit strategies. Crotch but a bumper sticker in a heretofore-fleeting waterloo. Crunk repentance. I span our doomed alphabet soup like Jane Fonda’s antiwar legs in calisthenic videos. My zenith of hair a brown, wannabe-Fawcett, mean-ole-toucan pupic papa — . He who so feeds on an entire corpus and still starves, helms the colloquium outside the bathroom of transubstantiation. Tonight — a vastly archived Nietzschean nighttime — I anal bleach my humpty- dumpty stigmatas. Boys conch with crimson Hollywood carpets that disentangle from their cavities, accustoming their catwalks upon the blood clots of their mamacitas. As twilight uncrowns the shade, I howl effluvium, switchblade hue to hue. I plié before the gas cloud lifting jumbo leaves. Like a mythic infantry, the thirsty roaches begin to leatherflock.