Angelic Rubber Angel Demons
Lola Mangles orange peels lights it up in fireballs. She glows in the late sunset with effervescent unbrushed teeth, smiling to the west, the birth place of fire and magic and magic fire, which we used to burn all of our belongings. We rubbed our bodies with the ashes as preparation for throwing ourselves onto the dominant discourse in order to prove our dedication to golden bauble promises, wrapped around our fingers. Don't unravel the roaring truth of these things. Don't unravel the plain matter mud of these things. They are as true and final as the hairs we shave in vain attempts at suppressing our simian semblance, our primate past. As capitalistic christian consumers, we are hairless from the neck down, naturally. Lola likes it ike that, but the claim of nature doesn't always fix. Her partners assume it's true, her waxing is so skilled. Slicked down with oil, smelling to high hell like rectal fluids like incense, like semen and roses, stinking of passion and God's rose scented semen, an ancient celestial delicacy worth more than your life. Drool over it, you'll never grok it wholesale, but the bits you do eat will stink up your intestines and give you heartburn in the testicle rib cage, ovarian birdcage. Burlesque blood cells, rubber in the neck of Angelic rubber angel-demons spitting on your grave.
