Her flesh...it tears oh so easily, like marmalade in a blender...the chunks of leftover strawberry goo sticking to the thick teeth...dicing, mincing the slices of fruit into fractions...millionths of them...of its original size. A frothy, creamy, & rich matter of a whipped and battered ordinary substance, jam, now resembles the small of her lower arm. The sugar-sweetened purity sweeps itself from her as if it were migrating...this mud so flavorful on her lips and almost weighed as a block of honey as she tosses it to Jesus, who sits, tarred and feathered on his poppy-buttered birthday cake, his flippers engaging in some twisted form of masturbation as he's doused with her...blood. He rubs it, smears it in his eyes as a desecrating attempt to free himself from blindness. While she weeps on her stomach, her fetus crawls out with lengthy claws from her nostril. She licks his toenails in disgust and in "ablated" response he raises the dagger once more over her naked, charcoaled body and growls a jumble of words, in his utter most manly, dominating voice. He hovers over her meaty arteries and threatens to slash them again...if she blinks and dishonors his stenched, old, wrinkled flab of body...