Dead Road 12

  Here is where the road meets its end, Dead Road Twelve is the place where we cracked. Your flesh meet my teeth and your fist across my flesh.

 A pinch a little itchi. Run baby, run little bitch.

“If i am so evil why are you satisfied?” she asked me, well, bad is good. Cruelty and insolence are the virtues of the ones with fear. Don’t hesitate and steal your dadda red car, my monster desire is after you, blowing the path through Dead Road twelve, do the curve, catch a ride, i’m just after, flee to eleven i’m at twelve. Dead Road Twelve is my little bitch.

  Midnight boom and gunshots, runnin’ runnin’ runnin’ back to the road, the oldest road, but her shots hit me. Lord, i’m bleeding, Lord i’m cracked.

 Passion is accurate, be sure of it. Little Ghost shotted me, and now i’m here, laying on the Dead Road Twelve, so dead as i am. She engineered the long, silent, tasty and bloody kiss.

 Poor kiss, poor kiddo.

  Move your skinny thighs around the fractals

Mathematician beauty, could count every iteration, every Mandelbrot fraction, and i saw it again, she aimin’ at me. That delicious, vicious breasts. Assault rifles silhouettes in a restaurant blouse. That delicious Little Ghost is the 90’s inside the 2000’s, frames of granular image of old tv shows. Out of tune guitars, Aerosmith and Queens of the Stone Age, i’ve heard it when i crawled back to the fox earth on that little bitch, motherfucker, cock sucker Dead Road Twelve. Prosthetic Head on my side, smiling to me, blank eyes, whispering that Victor Pascow wants to talk with me, Little Ghost wants to talk with me up there, in the MicMac Burial Ground.

  

  Pickup rumbling through the railroad, runnin’ away or she’ll beat the slammajamma outa’me. But i kinda like it, not bein’ those nitwitted mens who feel it’s an honor been beated, but i face the defeat as the course of the nature. Just another iteration on the space-phase system. And, face some truth, we really got no choice but loose. Death is loss.

  Devils, skeletons and witches under her blankets, such a kind baby. Face the creature whose not have fear of blood and knives, capture your attention just to eat your heart. She’s a good eater, not a cheap one. Cheap eaters sleep with you and give the most weakest hangover.

  But see through my eyes, she’s bare too much perfection for a Matador like me say no, foe or friend, doesn’t really matter, what’s matter is, that Little Ghost is what i call Art, Art in here at Dead Road Twelve.

 Oh boy, here she comes, i just want tie her in my pickup hood like a deer, but she’s closer and closer. Sit on me, here it comes.

  Dead Road Twelve was the stage to the Midnight Boom.