The Eels

By Jeremy Wade Gorgeous and slippery glass monsters they are. The Eels.

With their glistening eyes of pure hatred,

They are greasy death machines.

They are icy liquid nightmares.

They are syrupy trench rapists.

They are polished and silky primordial water goddesses.

In the deep and dark crevices they seek me out and they find me. 

They strike me down in my weakest of states, soaking prostrate in the waxy oils of my forbearance. They make a fool of me with their unsafe mental powers, their unstable time travel capabilities. They are glassy and transcendent. They reach the top but continue still, their unlimited moisture abundantly flowing directly onto my face. Their minds are glazed with sexual promiscuity (sexual magic). They maintain an infinite chokehold on my psyche from which I cannot escape. I lose control of my bodily functions in their lustrous and lubricious presence. I draw near to their slimy essence. Satiny Angels. Glistening Devils. Beautiful and viscous creations abiding in the darkness. Soapy miracle in my veins, throbbing and unctuous. Their oils consume me. Steady is my gaze upon these dancing wonder worms. I anxiously await their return. My body aches for the engulfing warmth of their saccharine fluids. My mind is a cage to which their hypnotically slithering bodies are the only key. My limbs quiver in anticipation of the powers of dampness that I will be granted once they make their home within me. For I will be theirs and they will be mine. Forever.