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My sigh is multipurposeful. A serious pelt. A filet of tenderest underside. 

A sloppy eater—my jowls invertebrate delicacies themselves—I rarely eat my face out. Mirrors are dangerous. Without my Eskimo bib, watch out. 

Canoes are overrated till April. Tell that to an igloo, see how long you last! 

A purpose of my Eskimo sigh is rampant dipshit white girls dig me. Underalls ooh and ahh. It ain’t easy to entertain the offers. 

I invite you to sex, they say, a suggestion of indigestion, satiation, the honorable judge Mania presiding over: Tombs. Hawaiian concourse. Breakthrough difference. Gaps, gasps, gypsy cabs to the Village of Screwed. 

Skin is underused. 

Think: cadavers, screwdrivers, hammers. 

Other tools: overalls, umbrellas, sheets of felt. 

Perfectly overprotected. So much better than the latex intestines of innocence.

If ever I lost my sigh the mess would pedal and explore and truck. My chest, a train wreck. My own personal apocalyptic Acapulco. End of the smallest world. 

Ooh and ahh, have you heard? Smashed windshield, ice floes, fjords no more. 

Replacement bibs for all! May I invite you, white girls, to sigh? 

I hardly worry if you’re sloppy. I wear protection. 

[Forever after at http://eyeshot.net/eskimos.html]
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