Elijah Burgher & Richard Hawkins. Do What Thou Wilt (test), 2014.
Every jerk at the base of my dick became a kind of drumming … and what began as little yearning pleading distress calls throbbing inconsequentially down around that little hidden part of my dick, the bulging lump behind the balls that reaches all the way back almost to that winking third-eye I refer to as my butthole … those drummings then charged forward, surging, pulsing with motive electricity up the thick hard fullness of my dick to circle around the gleaming swollen slick-wet head and they began to become songs, these poundings, liquid and effervescent in their eloquence, hand-driven smoke signals and little cries and devotional hymns sung to other more darker and beckoning realms, celestial telegraphs fired off to whatever farflung dark dieties that might could be drawn down for comfort, for consolation, for license, for encouragement … to join me in some hot new pursuit, a new thirst, some new hunger for something … some thing … some quest, some mission, some descent into deeper domains of whatever it might be: treachery, deceit, wickedness, ruthlessness, thievery, perversion, chaos – the fulfillment, the incarnation really, the fully-formed manifestation of all the grumbling little deviant faggotry I had always found gurgling up inside myself … but now just perfected, somehow, in some miraculous and peculiarly noble way …
