Motion Sensors

Lost old men. Their meaty skeletons pointing out the whores. Lonely men. Their thirsty cocks confounded by a sea of women.

Sometimes he hates himself. When that is the easier task. The freedom of failure is something to consider.

Sometimes he hates them. The callous world at large. The sluts and scabs of pussy that dare demand his worship for such limited pleasures. Bleed. Do it. Bleed some more.

She says, stay alone. You're better off. And so am I. This mutual disease usurps us both. And I know very well, lies when I hear them.

It's only sad because you are. It's not my fault. It's only dark because the earth is anxious. To keep spinning. And here I am stuck on it. Foolish enough to think anyone else is.

I'm always left with this stone in my fist. I'd throw it, but I'd break myself if I did.

The trouble with time is that it doesn't travel fast enough. Old women. Old men. Still children to us.

He's as ugly as I remember. And as handsome.