Thursday, July 20, 2017


I want a Baconator.
I want it now.
Want it in my mouth and all over my Jewish-Sicilian lips.

Your ass came out of virtually nowhere.
Like a ballistic missile shot from an underground bunker straight to my unexpecting heart.
I love how you play it off like it’s no big deal when actually nothing could be further from the truth.

We resist temptation or we don’t.
It’s just that simple and the older I get the more I realize temptation may be the very last virtue we have left.
Never much cared for owls. It’s difficult caring about an animal who has eyes in the back of its head and is wiser than King Solomon on a tear.

Your ass calls out to me like a collect call from a prison of the universal mind.
I desire to break on through and cleanse The Doors of Perception by telling you everything that’s weighing me down and letting the chips fall where they may.
Of course it’s a dangerous proposition letting one’s guard down, but it also gets mighty boring always staying above the fray and never getting one’s hands and heart dirty.

I want a Baconator.
Want it like I want you on all fours, barking at the moon as I take you from the back like a miner mining for the bloodiest and most striking of diamonds.
You told me a secret with your eyes that I kept to myself for as long as I possibly could before spilling it upon this killing floor like music that must be shared with the world.

Charles Cicirella

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