Runinng into metaphorical wasps

ROAD RUNNER BILL


The sound of a wasp trapped between two panes of glass.
Dripping water.
Moans that you make, sighs of air, throaty gasps as you writhe.
We are materialized in a comic book romance of sex and sin.

I can run as fast as Roadrunner Bill, skating across the ground after only one hour of sleep in two days, walking like a karate kid in a black and white movie from Hong Kong, drinking Coca Cola to stay awake and energized the way those brain cells are bouncing off racquetball walls, multi-faceted octagon rooms within the parameters set up by her and her friends.

Terrible gulps of her scent, my face wanting to disappear between her thighs.
I can feel tears forming and then flowing.
Then they are falling upon her beautiful eyes.
She is meeting me in spaces between the lines, I end up reading the bookmarker instead of the book, I revolve around her expectations like a dead caterpillar stuck to the bark.

There are more wasps between the glass.
Multiplying buzzing insects, poison wicked stingers dripping like water, exuding intense pain, dizzy, spinning, terrifying lust, anaerobic palpitations, breathing thick clods of gathered dust through clenched teeth, spiders crawling between cavities, rope burns on my neck, pantyhose stuffed into my mouth, smeared lipstick all over the walls, hundreds of wasps gathering forces between the glass.
The buzzing intensifies like droning ominous bass or the deep pops of the fires of Hell.

But I am Roadrunner Bill, fastest quick kill on blurred feet, dodging electric tumbleweed, leaping licking flames, tossing out the shards of the Art of Noise to take in Prodigy.
I am innocent in my dreams, a naked baby giggling in a room full of sexy bikini nurses, a weird séance calling back her strange name, princess, queen, acid lover, tattoo goddess, turtle belly, heat seeker, kisses that cut like a thin heated razor blade into my soul.


Dripping water.
She is in heat.
I am.
Sizzle.
The wasps are inside my skull.
Thousands of searing stingers feeling like her wild kisses.
I am hers.
I am random and unparalleled, receptive and iconoclastic, alone with the wasps.
I am drugged and free, imprisoned and shaken, clutching and breathing of her scent.




She is desire.
She is sky burning flames, nuclear fusion, electron smashing, microwave-able.
She is the sound of herds of wasps, flocks of wasps, pods of wasps, schools of wasps, prides of wasps, hives of wasps, nests of wasps, millions, zillions of wasps attacking the inside of my mind, my brain, my love and emotion, my cranium lit up with infinite stings.

I am listening to the dripping water.
Listening to the constant buzz.
I am Roadrunner Bill, lying in a dark room with wasps in my head.
And there is not a single coherent answer to anything I have felt yet.
I am Roadrunner Bill and I just keep running like hell.
Into more wasps as far as I can tell.