Finger me.
My feast is persimmon and poinsettia spiced, only those young peacocks approach,
pouring flat elephant sprite and bordeaux of milky, sardinian cloaks. Same musical sand cube-rented by juice.
Don’t timid me.
My eyes are indeed handshake, kissed in promise of pert agony, agate fingernails
loopty me to silverware: here exchanging pebbles of turkey fat and lemony tilapia crests, studying you.
Come and sit.
Welttomb of glassy hours is saltless appetizer, ignore goose flesh warrants and fairy
mush writs, all old friends develop cancers by these same caution faucets. Allow the morgue to rise, swallow.
Don’t cringe.
Take off your shoes and relax, dawn is swollen hexameter trimming direction for the starve.
Drools of famine humble my volted maw. Yours can butterfly well on my baguette, or wand ruin.
Sing.
Come amuse me: I don’t really eat my ornaments anymore. Mesmerizing as their preserved balm
may be, quartzed sense and all. You can see that I deserve this vibrant ridge, this fruity scream to watch mythilate.
