Solid Gold.

Traveling eyes hit the left lane cruiser.

An amplitude of booze injected into archaic cylinders fire up with a chortle and a howl as the luscious hunk of junk steers to avoid oncoming wit.

The ground shivers and quakes as demons awake to find they are dancing the same tune laid bare before them in a plethora of undergarments and hamfisted ideologies. Neither are saved.

The tracks positioned heavily are those of metaphors, but only when we realize we are all whores can we begin to see that the choices of others are made on a singular, certainly divine level.

Unbeknownst to us we will never find freedom.

Best intentions are left wrecked by the side of the road as the rhythmic compulsions of culpability pry deeper into the skin. There are always two sides but the victor rarely bares the mark of Cain.

A semen-encrusted member is worth its weight in gold in the courts of the vicious and decrepit; stood guard over the monuments of misogyny like feeble leering lepers appointed by none other than the Patriarch. Oh how we laughed.

Only when each swinging dick looks in the mirror and sees a missing half will the ruins of an ancient civilization finally crumble into dust.

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