The locomotive’s mournful horn sounds as I, explorer like, come down onto the Tualatin Steppe.
Donutland calls to me in an aspect most primordial.
For at this place, the mastodon’s Ghost rules as long ago those burly beasts frolicked and procreated under the Intoxication of that Ancient Drive of Desire that we all feel when nude by a wide river, and where, metaphorically, she’ll wrap me body and limb and soul around her curved form as if I was that wooden instrument upon which she’s playing Bach’s six Cello Suites, BWV 1007 to 1012.
O’er at Donutland where I’ll select yummy-based products as if I were within a Freudian Dreamscape where her slips are hidden, yet visible, and yeasty dough rises paired with Passion, and we both crave that taste as the cloud-hidden morn’ Sun climbs and burns us in our Naked sin.
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