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Pope Peter & the Moon Child

Once again upon this moontide frenzy, streams this last twilight, this Night, it gleams… Pope Peter, his head & legs a goat, breasts of a woman, this last of his Noble kind, his nimbus glows, rhythmicly fucks her curvy, burly, blue ass via this white-trash, plastic, armless statue, this Sacred Virgin, raw shit flows out, orvis glows, across scaly scarlet tissues, fluid red throws fleece. ‘Oh, what did you expect to find, … peanut butter & jelly???…,’ (Choosy Mothers Choose Jiff, No SKIPPY goddammit, not that, you lousy Mother fuckin’ whore child, aids & crack addiction! It is Peter Pan who is sublime, only this brand ascends from these dark primeval waters, encircles its own horizons, this Mother dries herself off, casts across libations to those thirsty ones…. she brisquely beckons, ‘Holy water, come & bring, cast in salt for seasonin’, give these zombies, here this plight, ring these bells, hell’s affright.’ As preeee- programmed, these unchoosy mothers stood limply aghast.

To read the rest of the novel, please visit Pope Peter & the Moon Child


About James Aire

I am a writer living in Brixton, South London who is seeking to subvert the 'order of things' through humor, chaos and absurdity.

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