Wednesday, May 15, 2013

text || Lawrence Upton

A film for men  
And so. She moves fur around her throat gloved hand up to weapons of her
face tipping the gun downwards in the insulated hand to shoot. Below, before
the flak jacket on the ground, a stuffed bird falls shot dead. Two little lines
in the breaking ice, breathing hole, something to look at in the vacancy. She
has a sweet face; I want to fuck her. Want to get between her legs and fire.
Love has nothing to do with it. Just her nice face, slippery, axe into wolf
head dog running hand still trying to get it back, concours d'elegance. 

No comments:

Post a Comment