This would be your basic pickle flavored pornography. This is your libido, pickled. You walk into the bar and the crazy girl from ten years ago is now crazy woman, all lipstick smear glorious and voodoo damage delirious. It’s a furious process. Don’t bother. You need to bother, it can only enhance the hamster wheel of days and unleaded gasoline spill of Leon Valley night. You bump into crazy woman all these years later and “Idiot Wind” is on the jukebox but you are not listening to Bob you are listening to the throb of your gun happy hands and fire dare feet. Ache is a necessity for some. We can be dumb about it or numb about it or Does The Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor On The Bedpost Overnight about it. This would be adventure of your choosing. This would be the losing of luck which no one owns. There is no copyright, no inscription, no band of gold to keep it all together like a Beach Boys song, one about a girl, not about an ocean. All girls are oceans mad with song. The mermaid is a decoy manufactured by Disney Pixar. There isn’t anything cute and mute about the average American ocean girl. You know that shit. You’ve got the tattoo. Swig, sailor. Sip it slow and the world stays sweet, as daddy liked to say on full moon Jack Daniels Hank Williams night. The sour will surprise you but the crunch is the biggest shock of all. No one these days is in the market for that sort of thing. Still there are those who know how to feign. Say, come over, bring yourself and your cute polka dot ass. We’ve got some sex to taste. Pucker up. Grandpa says there is an art, an art to love at its most debased and anonymous. There is no debased anonymous sex but there are plenty of pickles, tongues and assholes for the sharing. Dig in, darlings. Turn it into a fable or something.

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