Psychedelic Breakfast – Cherry Earnshaw

He’s sitting in front of me, pushing the beans around his plate like they are harvested organs. Maybe that’s precisely what they are. The coffee creamer looks a lot like cum, and the coffee granules look like powdered shit. I drag my nails up and down his naked, mottled thigh, sending flakes of eczema onto the floor. The sound of bacon frying sounds like a body melting. Mistaking my hair for leftover pasta, he sticks his fork in there and starts twirling. I sit on the washing machine, feeling its vibration inside my good parts. He comes to join me, hiding his cock behind a copy of Playboy. Laundry detergent falls from the side—a viscous liquid that makes the floor look like melted candle wax. He asks me if his face looks red, but all I see is a tomato with eyes. I grab his dick and begin to stroke. My fast stroking and the intensity of the washing machine are becoming symbiotic. Climaxing, his pulsating penis suddenly resembles a human breast expressing strings of pearly milk. We return to the table. I arrange the miniature sausages to form a bridge. He places the egg at the front and slams his hand down on the yolk, making eggy rain. He flips open the cigarette packet and takes out one. When I hand him the lighter, I see the severed finger hanging from his cracked lips, painting my feet.