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A sentence glows to a point.
An orgasm is a demolished structure of tension.
Nodes of boogers implode in my brainpan.
Will a fiddly sentence always be open
to possessing its syncopated ecrevisse
or mht-yhr of castor beans?
Is an erection a symbol of the Resurrection?
I adhere to you, and to facile asperity.
If abandoned for too long, each part of speech
will decay in its stultifying nest. Yippee!
(I just cut one.)
Not all doglegging words are words.
The hocks of unswerving stars see thru
their sparks
to glimpse
the unpopped night.
The curve of your ass
could stop constellations
in their tracks.
Ultimately it takes a miracle
to take a breath away intimately.
To lip words and lisp the sweatier tidbits of woof
as I float away, gnawing on a wooden nickel.
I erupt into a rhapsody of acoustic peristalsis, which
only a few dinky pipsqueaks are perky enough
to combust.
Face down, plugged into the nascent blue flames
of syntax spirals, suck moistly, and then -- wowwee! -- zip up.
Experientially fucking the eternal existence of the truth,
rabid grubs speckle the gussied-up rays of stoutish cupules,
knocked-up with no syllabified bleed thru.
In vernal pools, each word squirts its line of glabrous squeaks
and succulent squeals.
Aw -- relieve me of the wrangling torsion-distortion within myself -- ow!
Limp light. Bone dice. Teosinte. Swirlie corn mush.
Disbudded Lesser Celandine. Leaf litter. Vermeil scrum.
My confettied vulvovaginitis is colloidally
and polysyllabically turgid.
The tentaculoid sysop dunt floc the cajoling umbo devop.
My euphoric nipples flare-up to smudge the palstaved whelk
of corymbed petioles.
The circle of truth will again be found
in the flair of the fringe of the two white tips
of the jay's blue tail.
Que asi sea -- cosi sia.
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