Main Lines, Blood Feasts, and Bad Taste - Lester Bangs [157]
trampoline between your titties and your cute li’l belly I’d trail drool like a snail on his pilgrimage to a vat of salt, fact I’d fizz up just that gruesome just to lick the Fowley rust out of the inner circles of your eyeballs, your blasted bruised broasted irises which are like the eighth and ninth circles of Hell, speaking of which if you wanna go there read Maldoror by Comte de Lautreamont because Satan and nobody else wrote it and it proves for all time that Satan is most definitely not a punk rocker, then I’d suck out the knotted strands of your untied navel till last Tuesday's tuna sandwiches came streaming from your cunt-wide bleeding gut along with half-digested Percodans and I’d slop up that whole mess too, then down down down with monomanical obsessiveness because I really mean to devour you toenails to platinum dye Cherie, so down I snark to loll and brrble moleing and foaling in the Caledonian forest of your pubic hair, meaning before I get to eat your poosy I will slobber all over what grows like a victory garden just above it in fact worse than that I will bury my phlegmootic fool's face in the Hansel & Gretel forest of your bush and nuzzle to my mania's content, after which quite naturally I will take your ruby glistening and by now obviously primed clit upon the end of my totally schooled and ferally furious tongue and holding back the final fury of my two years at least nursed desire I will play taps and “Till There Was You” on that fine little kernel of your basically gelatinous self, I’ll tongue you tentatively on purpose till you scream like a disemboweled dog and slam your fists against the wall over above behind your twisted head repeatedly until both your hands are bloody pulps fit for stomping wop grapes into rotten but reasonably priced wine that blazered swingers who read New York magazine are proud to serve their guests always making sure to get the pronunciation so exactly right you know in front they have no idea what they’re serving or whether it's anything but swill, and swill is what I want from you Cherie, the swill that roils up inside your writhing cunt as I plunge my maddened mottled speed-cracked wine-drenched tongue just as deep into your mysterious eternal gushing flushing rushing timeless arching expansively contracting deliriously shivering soulhole as I can possibly get it, I mean I’m going to eat you out you worthless slut like you’ve never been eaten before especially since I bet say Robert Plant was never so considerate, that faggot probably just wanted you to blow his puny limey puckledrop after which he rolled over without another word (not that there was one in the first place) snored off hugging his pillow like you wished he’d hug you as he honks out flatted fifths that pass for Z's dreaming of stairways to heaven which in his benighted beleaguered budgie's brain is just a place where hippies don’t lose their looks when they turn 35 and as nature will always have it the old jowls begin to sag just like any businessman approaching middle age, I mean shit Cherie if you can fuck a pathetic accountant like that putz you can certainly open wide your sugarbunny icecream spliceyummy for a destiny-driven madman like me, I ain’t proud, I’d just like to taste the sweet sweet core of your honeybuns, been thinking about it ever since I saw the cover of your first album, I didn’t even care that applying all habitual rock critic standards I think all your music sucks syphilitic rodents that have been dead in the backstreet gutters of Tijuana for nigh ten years now, excepting “Born to Be Bad” that is, I like that song, but who cares about songs anyway? Do you care about my songs? Of course not. You want to suck my cock and/or (take your choice as per matters of which approach goes first or later) feel it pulsing madly back in the USA which is only the deepest regions beyond time beyond lust beyond human citizenship beyond Mercury Records even who can’t fuck you over any worse than they did the Dolls, way back heart attacking deeply plunged up there in the neverlevered land of your panicked