Saturday, April 28, 2012

Under Hoshizaki

You’re there now, up against the subway grating
and the music breaks vulgar for which you were
turned happy. Little dumpling twinings. Slider
you’re a tight reach box on the sidewalk concrete.
You were not smoking a moment ago. To have with
imps you danced hacky sack lush midnight footbag,
become were the moon travel grunts glorious along
with assemblage prostheses, only after which sexy
moments established their evident hold. You are one
pleasurable curiosity, no dancer back but you come
shuddering a perfect chandelier cabriole foot carve.
Terribly the same things amusing, more preferable
now to make at just cardboard, not for dog sausage.
Sluice your little fingerling. I see cobwebs collecting.
It is warm down that face under ramps that blow
under Hoshizaki. We’re of both mythical reminding.
And what up did your trunk but with manage see.

No comments:

Post a Comment