Tempest Miller

Re: Man From P vs. T

Pulling out his guts via dildo.
Do you know how long that takes?
That’s twenty-eight hours of nighttime butt-fucking.
Butt-fucking in his boiler room flat – hung, drawn and quartered.
That’s four-hundred-and-thirty-two orgasms.
A dilation sufficient to consume the polymer base. 
It’s stuck to the doorsill by suction,
planted on the mirror so he has to stretch
on the toothpaste-stained sink rim into the slight alcove.
Stretch under the narrow but incandescent shelf light.
The shelf light like the sun, 
like the oil truck that exploded on the M4 corridor,
like the car bomb outside the software infrastructure HQ,
the terrorist cell house in residential Dorset.
It’s a scalpel for his insides, a lifting hook.
A commixing of prosthetic cock and the turrets of his animal body.
His seagull-white bladder, 
his monkey-brown rectal cavity,
his pink-red-orange elbow joint.
The unseen videos, phantasms, of his undergrowth,
awash with blood and the secreting yellow.
His guts get ripped out at 11:51 AM on his
student living bed.
Sheets muddied with dried lube, piss, spit, cum, blood,
bird shit, dog froth and chunks of body,
and now an overspill of beer shit and unprocessed waste.
He doesn’t react. It’s still not fetid enough.
The warm, alien parts rub against his self-spanked butt cheeks
lying twisted on his side.
He smears the newest cum batch over his lips.
Enters a neutral wavelength.
Reaches for his bedside table and takes a swig of Jack Daniels
from the bottle.
Blood in his missing teeth he knocked out four hours before.
University student, nineteen, but crow’s feet, sunken eyes,
acrylic pallid flesh polish.
Thinning hair.
Another swig of Jack. A night-out that lasted two months,
came back with no teeth, went to sleep with no gallbladder
or spleen. With cow guts, the sensation of having antlers,
but really just nodes he plugged on for electro-sex torture,
which he forgot about.
He gets onto his knees on the fluid-soaked mattress
and picks up his dusty-red entrails.
He wields them like a joined-up scythe, a flabby scarf.
Extremely, deliciously red when held in concert.
He feels the light, zero-gravity drag of something decoupling from within.
He punches hard under his bottom rib to distract from it.
At last, he piles every last meaty pound of it into his bedside drawer.
Slams it shut with a bit caught in the closing.