man-equin

she's wearing a cross between her tits
and christ is being baptized in perfumed cleavage sweat
and this amorous view of soft swelling curves converts/perverts my perception and
now christ's chiseled expression of pain looks like ecstacy
and my thoughts are committing sins and secret molestations again.

her oily hair frames her pretty base face, capturing her leering manic eyes in sunken bloodshot pits,
she accents her paranoid delusions of grandeur with a barking tone of absurdities and nihilistic negotiations,
and she's scratching her hymen, breaks it and brags about her first time sinning solo

my DNA is on everything and this frightens me.
i don't trust measurements i can't see and only want my traces to be where i draw them with clear intent of will.  

i want the option to lie always available to me at my disposal and self-defeating whim.  
you have no right to interfere with my compulsions towards violence, it's a basic right that my closed fist gives me.  

i am an informed, enlightened male disfigure--castrated like man-equin.