Dipping Sauce is a Terrible Name for a Porn Star
The first day of Fall always makes me think of John Milton
baking cupcakes in Baphomet stilettos, real cockroach killers
from the school of entomology. Black lace like naughty place settings
poisoning the well with a contortionist’s deceptive haste. Dipping Sauce
is a terrible name for a porn star, don’t you think? Even if such appellations
are anatomically correct. And the Live, Laugh, Love crowd is a dunk tank full of piss
and piranhas. I watch them get torn apart in reverse collage while the
giant Ikea clock on the wall fakes another end times orgasm with pumpkin
spice napalm over everything. Amish house skeletons growing erect
in fields along the highway. Tailgaters and sodomites rushing up from behind.
Looking to pass on the double line with power steering and unsavoury gestures.
I throw on my indicator to intimate a great turning to nowhere. Robert Johnson’s
cigarette breath while the devil plays all his records backwards looking
for command-and-control centers with “missiles like sausages.”
A straight carnivore in vegetarian times, as the swipe right Clantons
get cleaned out faster than a bank vault full of expired hand sanitizer.
Horror Sleaze Trash 