Blue Raspberry Popsicles
Sweet and cold are the eyes of the hot and passionate freaks in front of the abandoned corner. After closer inspection of their eyes they seem to be slowly sliding out blue raspberry popsicles. Deep within the angst sweating, crotch swelling, and world splitting aura perfuming the air their bodies claim for their own, there is a distant and stifled rumble of hunger. Queerly, the freaks’ stomachs are full of rich decadence that satiates their hollowed out lives. It is their hearts that rattle, that echo, that silently roar. Displacement from waves of ejaculation create swells that crash into the walls of existence to procreate and pour out these wicked wannabes and swooning suckers into this phallic world. But amid the dimly lit corner of two cold deserted streets there is the heat of hungry hearts and the power of purely tainted bodies. Lost souls and loose belts seem to crawl to the gathering of these freaks, in search of filling some sort of empty pastry bereft of sweet creamy centers inside them, and soon find themselves sucking the hunger from the hearts of these wild boys. Bodies mangle and contort during intercourse to produce beings that scarcely resemble the people who were just seconds before oozing insecurities from the realization of their exposed Netherlands. Sickly sadistic men are sent in whirlwinds of fits and rages and distort their personalities to cope with the approaching crumbling of their psyche, and combat this wild ride of emotion and psychosis by looking to be filled but instead do the filling, dominating and domineering in stature and manner. Sad little boys crawl into the arms of wild boys and are painfully ungrateful for the symbols of their brief affairs. Some say the cure for sicknesses such as these is found in the soul, some say the cure is found in love, some say it’s found in sex, but most say the cure is found in the deliberate ingestion of the virus itself.