The miseries of numbers HIPPONA...

The miseries of numbers

HIPPONAX

In Lydian tone she said, "Come hither, I will stopple up
your tight asshole." And she beat my incite sack with a sprig
of lilac as if I were a satyr. I savage backwards, breathing
heavy, and caught there by dint of writhing vines I suffered
torture times couple and then some: A dried rose scion
lashed my man-tits; someone smeared me with cow's
shit, and then my ass started stinking like Hades.
Dung beetles came, draw into the mouthed there by the fetid
gook like roan-filled flies. Bug with their alphabet-eating
sounds: They screened me and shoved inward, burrowed