" hey, grondelski " __ 004 __ what became of grondelski

/ What Became Of Grondelski? /

She saw the seed stain on my jeans, the muck of my nail beds, my brisket hue, meat cheeks, boiled bacon, the needy rheum in my eye, the gob spots in my gob edge, and as she left a departing taxi, in the very early morning, I pulled her into the alley behind her terrace that was lit by the white of a single street light, amongst bins and buddleia, detritus, a rancid mattress, a tricycle, a microwave, a dismantled motor engine, soft green moss, waist high dandelions, I pulled her to the stone and gripped her neck with the both of my hands and applied a downward pressure until with a slight snap it dawned across her intelligent features that this was that, and the eyes flicked off, like a no vacancies sign, and I took a peek, such was my prize, obliged as I was to receive it, the breasts lined with thin veins like the routes of pilgrimage, the lightly thatched pubis, the meaty drapes of the cuntal finery that soon would fester, and with a tool I carefully divested her body of a hand for my assembly of works, for the hands are the key.