Repealing Godheads and Foreskins like Popping Dandelions

I am excited. Are you excited? Cause you damn well should be.

Today is May Day, a day on which you should wash your skin with fresh morning dew to keep yourself forever looking young and sisyphean. Or, narcissian perhaps. Go forth ye luminous naive rosefoliates! Gather ye irascable bundles of wildflowers and green branches, trample past the mysteries of life incarnate, as unto reeds and shoots plunging leeward through the the matted corpses of their dead ancestors, and dye the fibres, twist some floral garlands together for a sun hat, and set up a Maypole to dance around!

We've walked far enough. Our inermis feet. My feet are killing me.

"Killing"
"Dying"

We're always confusing death with emotional highs.

"I think I will blow someone's brain out if summer does not get here quicker."
But not really. Everytime I see a stupid bloc of winter-lovers crusty with anarchic cold and the equality of snow all over them I want to beat and rob them, spit in their face and yell RECREANCY!

Do not merge murder with death.

Killing for Summer is like farting for Fresh Air.

Are you excited? Cause you damn well should be. I am excited.

When you think about your first time, triumphantly coming over her with that plunging fearful look of concupiscient animus you'll say you were "flying" or "falling" or "amazing and weightless" "through the stars", then there is great disenchantment, disgruntlement, disappointment.

And when you recall the time they charged your royal blue heart and brought you back from the brink you remember seeing the light and "flying" or "falling" or "combing away by some unseen force" "through the pearly gates of heaven", then there is furious disillusionment, dissatisfaction, despondency.

Today we are blisters. We are corns. We are reeds and shoots and springing flowers puss-filled putrified fingers lifting toward the touch of Apollo's sun. We must tear through our dead ancestors in the spring, we must tear through our flesh in sex, and tear through our lives even unto the cadaverous finale.

More. More. We Hunger for more. Wherever it is be it around the leafy bend or beyond the confines of the flesh, or past our fathersgods or into May, May! Oh that lusty month that's coming. Or damn well should be.

Are you excited? I am excited.