Editor’s note: I read this at Open Mic Nyte recently, and I felt is deserved a wider audience. It was written by a long-time friend of mine in one of the notebooks we share.
At Right Angles
by M7/Rectal Infectant
My pet kangaroo gently bounces in front of me – ears atwitch. I lustily attack her brownie and she farts off into the azure distance somewhere. I mount her ghostly afterimage and slobber all over the back of her neck. Her poltergeistly marsupial climax timpanied at the end with a massive kick of her rabbit/clown feet. I double over in grief, semen dripping from my defeated unit like absinth dripping from Lord Byron’s lips (or like the condensation from a rickety mid-August Oklahoma window mounted air conditioner.)
“Fuck you, Kangaroo!” I groan as I fumble through her ghost pouch for the “off” switch. After seeing my hand pass through the insubstantial pet, I settle for the 24th century super- Quaalude I fish out of my vest pocket.
After a bit, I am calmed and there are no kangaroos about – ghostly or otherwise. Yet I still feel the clammy clutch of her chocolate roo vagina. 45º crooked perspective… loamy earth surrounds… tumbling grains of sand.sugar.salt…
Matching her bounce this time, I hold tight to her ridiculous ears as she farts off into the azure else. The supersonic breeze buffets my erection, but I had taken special adhesive precautions the night before.
The ghostly image was left alone in my room to gleelessly masturbate to the Hoover.