September 28th, 2011

The mouth that’s been speaking through all these years. Somewhere, in the corner, on the piano. Telling you things you never wanted to know. Things you knew but didn’t want to accept. And why should you? They are not beautiful things, afterall. This mouth that you punch now. Hard. Harder. Relentlesly, so it’d shut up. So it’s lips are so swollen rendering it unable to speak. So you can sit at the piano and – nothing. Not a word, not a thing coming from it. So it can only be used for sucking a cock. No. Finger. Tiny little finger. So it – maybe – felt what it’s like to be punched all these times. So as to become so swollen that every move, every thing you want to utter, or do, stumbles upon itself. Coming out grotesque and ugly right there, at the heart of it. But it must be the mouth speaking again.

And thus you have no choice but punch it again, straight into those lips.

Enter heavyweight battle, motherfucker.

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