Hedy Lamarr Goes to Space
The heads of Easter Island nod their way down Main Street. Frothing cream pie
Add to Cart girls hooked up to Hismith Premium fuck machines like charging stations
for the woman on the go. And I am up on the third floor, jacking off to a picture
of Hedy Lamarr in a space suit. She was friends with Howard Hughes long before
the Mormons filled his arms with broken needles. Why does everything sound
like an unlevel washing machine when I’m trying to get to El Dorado?
Long, frenzied strokes like the dirty talk space program trying to get off right there
on the launch pad. A grandstand full of binoculars to cheer me on.
I feel at home in the great patriotic womb, let out a succession of tiny farts
like escaped prisoners fanning out across the county. Snow squalls from
Radio Canada, Farley Mowat and the tragic wheat kings. Now, that is a band
I would go see, if I were not chafing the carrot with these stainless-steel veggie
peelers for hands. One hand really, like someone who refuses to clap.
What a royal asshole he is! Probably skins cats with an engraved butterknife!
Who doesn’t enjoy the show? I know I can’t enough. Dwarves humping midgets
pumping little green men in some sort of evolutionary fuck buddy bouncy castle
to bring the bucking big bang cosmos home.
Horror Sleaze Trash 