This is as raw as it gets

So tonight, I lost the Dirty Gerund's Iron Poet challenge to a flame-hared poetic goddess, finishing 236 to her 251. The secret ingredient was "Shaving Cream" and we had to write an original haiku, an original short piece, and incorporate the theme into an older work. Here is my stuff:

cold menthol gel burns
lacerations and bruises
your love is hardcore



Stuffy-nosed so-called experts on the matter of swords and virginity say that a katana is just a razor taken to it's logical extreme, which is backasswards, because if there's anything extreme, its the notion that taking twenty dollars worth of polybladed murder-engineering to my face is something that should happen on a daily basis. Or ever.
I reject this idea that shaving cream is my neck's deodorant, swathed with solar frequency so as to keep my socially reprehensible manhood from flopping about all willy-nilly, waggling suggestively at nuns and children, and I swear I'm still talking about beards. Huge, burly, hairy beards! If you distilled a beard to it's essence and set it on fire, you'd have a gigantic stinking mess! Don't do that at home, or ever. I, and you may have noticed this, am not a good source of advice.
Pyotr Alexeyevich Romanov, or as he was known on the street, Petey G, once attempted to levy a tax upon those bearfucking Russian hardasses who let their freak flag fly, and he died of a dick infection before he turned fifty. The lesson to be learned here? Those who stand staunchly clean-shaven in opposition to the righteous beard shall die horribly and have their statues torn asunder by communists!

Who will, as is the style, have gigantic beards.



Brazillian cake-farting pornography

We streak down midnight ribbons, wind running claws through our scalps and we laugh with the freedom that only comes from being young and foolhardy enough to believe in forever. We flew over roads like the wheel was invented just for us, two asphalt pilgrims tearing ass like they came with perforated lines, looking for salvation passed out in an alley between a liquor store and a bodega.
You pop the clutch and shift into fifth as inertia pulls us downward, together, our faces draw near in that nightmare straightaway between Worcester and oblivion, I can smell the menthol graveyard on your lips and the radio roars back to life, electrical short or burnt-out capacitor we weren't ever really sure, that was all the prompt we needed, burning out in the weed ocean of a long dead restaurant's parking lot, you climbed into my lap, sweat and hot leather creaking like the pearly gates, you brought your mouth close and whispered,
"You wanna know what really gets me hot?"
And I whispered,
"Yeah."
Like there was any other acceptable response, like God would have ever forgiven me for rejecting this, most perfect example of his majesty.
"Close your eyes" Her breath was a hot blast of paradise, a desert sirrocco straight out of the walled gardens of Caliphate Abdul-Hamid II itself, and I did, every nerve ending turgidly at attention, she didn't wear perfume, didn't need to, if you could ever bottle the salt on her skin the world would stop overnight, everyone and their mother sprawled spread-eagle in joy, crystal vial clenched claw-like in joyful fists.

There was a hiss, like oxygen escaping a life support system, like a snake trapped in a boot, like something pressurized was exploding, slowly, into my mouth, soft palate burning with the familiar sting of swallowed, what is this. . . Shaving cream? I turn to spit it out the window only to find her hands holding my jaw shut, clenched over my nose barking "SWALLOW IT! SWALLOW ALL OF IT!" panting, eyes bulging like the denim flags she left in her wake. And, never being one to deny the kinks of others, I did, repaying the gift three weeks later when I showed up at her office with a birthday cake and a knowing smile, can of baked beans clenched in my bu. . . Other fist, naked save for my fursuit.

She thinks she can out-obscene me? Game on, lady, game on.