Max Casualty (EXPLICIT)

The hammer of night lands a final strike. The last of the sun's slim digits submerge below the horizon's lavender-denim razor. The autumnal swatch of this evening's celestial bloodletting is concluded with a plutonian afternoon.

As their father falters and drowns - for the countless-teenth-time behind our earthen sphere - shadows he'd helped me conceive sprout and thrust out from the capsized mass of my carapace as I cling to a cedar-bark-cork in this vast sea of sticks and leaves.

Earlier, I had prostrated in the rays of day, so he may catch an eye-full of my dried, ichor-inflated wings; but the lovely lust he so sunnily thrust upon my bust has since faded into dusk's dust.

I am alive, but I deny that I'd survived my previous ordeal. It is I who is risen from The Deep, The Leviathinian Sleep, The Steel Prison. Oh, yes - I feel the dry, knotted, greedy hunger; like a compacted clot of glass and thunder.

I crave no grass, cucumber, fields of passion, nor the glaze of summer's petalled pollen-saucers. No; I shall stuff my face with monsters and their daughters.

I am the bride to no king; for all beasts are feasts that I seek, and they shall be brought to writhe at my feet as they slide to their pathetic, peasant-knees in an effort to plead for their paltry lives. That is; after I foist my fists into the slip of a slit I'd nicked from their taints to their tits - and all the while, I'll spit on those piles of shit like the pig-headed paupers they pretend they aren't.

The chirps of a cricket chorus' score soars above an unfolded cloak of orange and yellow, my meadow, the very moment I imagine when I'll squeeze my fellow freaks' greases from their spleen, wings, stingers, and things, between my teeth in the flagon of my probuscis while I erupt the rest of their guts from what's left of their butts like a blunderbuss; with a well-timed, six-limbed hug.

And yes, I shall receive all the attention The Queen could ever want and need, as is destined, when I wear their intestines draped around my nape like ruby beads; and from my lips and down my front, in a drip like pearly seeds of engorged ticks, will be those pretender's own liquid-ivory, insectoid splendor! They are the hand, and I am the blender!