Saturday, March 20, 2010


Pointiff Mastiff

Pointiff-Mastiff come calling, walking down your street. I'm the Pointiff-Mastiff made of meat. As I walk they try to tie me with religion and primitive thought. I'm Pointiff-Mastiff and I'm free of thought. I had a cone on my head that I split open and wrapped around. Now, I won't scratch at my primal guilt; sleep in bed carpenter built. I'm full of fleas and lice, lies and guilt. I'm made of thumbtacks and stick I stook. Clammy hands and a flask of XXO and OOX. I'm something like an evolutionary T-Rex. Stuck in quicksand and bound to stick, I got a Pontiff's air and a Mastiff's dick. If you see me walking the town, make sure there's liquor around. Because, you know I grind and push when I'm on a biblical bender. I hump to the beat of Genesis, Revelations, and T-bones tender. To make tail-wagging look this good you need a religious trade, drink out of ivory and speckled cups and spend time in a feeding tube. There's life on the other side of the street: teaming with birds and small objects that become unquestionable to likes of God and me. I'm racing across the street. I'm a Pointiff-Mastiff and I'm as big as the world.

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