Artificial Wings

Every woman has a genius in them, an intuitive genius, an effortless circumnavigation of the male’s meager intuition flightless bird, the Dodo under the foot of mankind. A wild plague radiates from her skin, from her pores, pestis crawls into the nasal canal and will budge only in the event of our death. We are slaves to her squirm, to her temerity, to the penetration that she allows and craves from phalluses with wings.