Elvis Surpasses Cleopatra

 

With the wisdom that surpasses machismo, the King retreated behind the brewery towers, where only the starlight reflected off the backwater outflow interrupted the dark universe of his fear.  The grid was down again, and Elvis’s device remained uncharged while night creatures hunted overhead—the bat, the bear, the buffalo.  Elvis himself attempted to hibernate, but with guts bound by meat joy, shuddering visitations plagued him: in shame and pleasure, Elvis broke his vow and used methane against Priscilla in halo.  With hands of the serpent, the King resisted Khan’s ninth appeal and demolished Fargo in anger.  Then the silent kite of Cleopatra descended from the black moon.  Fire returned to the brewery and Elvis drew strength from the gasses.  When he peeled away Tiger Suit, Elvis glistened in the methane burn off.  Cleopatra’s voice descended from the engines above and her eye shadow followed the bouncing ball to the refrain of supplication: “it’s a small, small town oh give me all your love / it’s a small, small town oh love me in the butt.”  Elvis became vulnerable in the groin, and bullets ripped from Cleopatra’s song penetrated the skin of Active Elvis, only to encounter the fat layer we call Triumph and ricochet back at the powerful enchantress.  Using slow-motion, Cleopatra savored the agony of the boy who, one tender night in St. Louis, loved her to the orgasm of swan pose.  And truly the pain of Elvis swelled in his leopard thong because he knew—oh love to thine own self do these bullets travel!  In a thousand thousand years, no sweet loving would match Cleopatra’s sweet loving for the sheer fantasy material that fueled the King’s bold postures.  Without her, Infant Elvis would suffer guilty masturbation forever on the distant moon of Jupiter.  But as the bullet lines slowly carved rivers of air toward the fully charged halo where the face of Cleopatra appeared in sex hieroglyphics, Elvis observed readiness in her scripts: as bullets punctured her image and her substance followed into the many black holes, gasses exploded onto Red Marquee—“All Living is Elvis”—and grief lifted like the arrow graph of confidence that burned strong across the grid in those happy Vegas years.

 

 

Elvis at the Desert Inn

 

In Nixonia, Elvis reclined by the blue pool, and made himself heard: “I’ve installed a million clocks in the sky.  This lemonade is everything.  My member swings long below the horizon.  Wear your goggles.” His voice amplified for a thousand years from the moon of Jupiter, and he paused to appreciate his stocked kit.  In another thousand years this instant, the King takes bacon joy, and the captain provides the fresh needle.  Brittney sought to pleasure him there, but no one felt the pain of amplification in her broken ears more than she, and as she collapsed into jones on the poolside tile, Elvis struck the pose of a thousand flaming tongues and she shuddered in reversal of orgasm.  Elvis had not come to Vegas to be denied singular voice.  “I witness spans beyond you, Brittney.  I battle in glory with kicks of infinite gravity.  This lemonade is amazing.  You are many receding points, and I will dominate the sky that opens from your collapse.”  Purchase this account directly to your wiki and live in the light of Elvis.  We see Brittney in dissolve as Elvis comes inside the new universe of her demise.  Subscribe to this posting and receive “The Pleasures of Mother Sun” in ex-dim formatting with the orgasms of a pony and a thousand years this instant of meat joy.  Call now.  Call out to me.

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About William Stobb


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William Stobb doesn't usually write futuristic Elvis sex mythology. In many ways, he seems like just a normal dude.
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   1 week ago
I'm guessing you dig Pynchon.

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