Happy girl happy about happy girl clapping,
ecstatic to no fault, we'll be yapping in the loft
(happy girl) while they're snapping the locks out into a pulp
we can be chubby in our credit-hoarding books.
Take a look. We make a spoon, the concave shape in time will crook
into a tinny opportunity for ice-cream off the hook,
traipsing on until the bonafide jukebox hits the perfect tune
to which you move, be still my beating rust- this night's a swoon.
Each night is unevenly cheesed, grinded and sequel-esque soon.
I hurtle a lamp into the maw on the enamel of lonesome comfort
to fetch love in a bowl of creamy tomato soup.
Yes, love in a bowl of soup.

I do love you with aphasia- to wit,
in brief collages that intervene and string
merry hands to gasped current acts of beat
grasped through a foamy mad bedspring
with a blanket spread for the hiding of the tests
that are ranged from the edge of a queue-stretch
to the census of mites on the fan above the head
who agree to shift their scales, but circumspect;
and in unforgotten deals made with the plate
with melting butterscotch shipping the remains of smell
of your shoulder where the friendly promise was made,
besides the impressions of wings of dazzled grace
under the shoes, while fingers remain calm.
To wit, I love you in the deepest pockets of arms.

They say that jokes are meant to gratify
if they're good enough. I said wow and
refused to return the call.
(Ask not what your modesty can elicit.)

Gah, for a shove, or a ladder to boot.

Assimilative effects will be assimilative.

Must be the plaque. Must be the beat.

Human souls are made of dead paper.

Outrageous, says the goat before playing her flute.

              no faith in        skin      betray

I dipped my nose in sterilized water and am clean,
ready to proceed.

Body hair falling like wall-paint, but not readily.

Nose is padded with consciousness, it knows,
I can reach my belly hole.

Nobody told me how much stronger my hands are
than I anticipated; I have been composed for
so long that I underestimated the weight of the cricket bat
I used to drive the ball away with on the dry ground
near my house every evening. I can smell the perspiration
on the handle. I ****** it firm against my chest dead centrally
where under the skin and flesh my ribs meet and **** the beat
was so good that I couldn't help persisting; made a fist
with my right hand and beat it hard where the bat struck,
and suddenly I'm moving like a streetcar with its jerky clanging act,
bam and the edge of November bam and the duality of breath
bam and the corrective range of tears and bam and the pressure
of reddening spots and bam and bam drop of bam you bam assurance bam a space feud bam a rivalry bam of delicacies bam he's back and bam bam bam bam sneaky tom who goes there bam parched bam ****** bam oh death oh stop oh word oh letter oh fruit oh seed oh diesel oh Rayban eyes oh bam oh bam oh bam oh canon fodder that is true and oh bam oh bam oh bam oh bam a civil service due to be silent,
to be quiet.
I know, hey. I know. Sleeping well and good.
Well, well. I'm sorry it took so long.

Mealtime 1.45, whereby scores
of wind material run the shop
of slowly suffering, dense cold,
like a bulge in the history of sores-
all I thought was a tinny spore,
a fraction of love to tear down the robe.
Azithral in small doses, calmed down
with tap-food. Hour of the gods.

Strange, what tenors reveal about the quiet.
Repeating the chuckle, dashed about wicker chairs,
A cut set deep and probable in its bloom-
Many pleasures, many official corporealities to buck.
Some of us were printed with decorum.
Theirs was the lion's share of assault by the blinding glimmer
Of the closeted hope that many a star borrowed
And confessed to in assizes.
We could have been better selves as limbs who loved like parrots do,
With habits I do not know.
But I'm sure they have their graces cobbled up for the relatives, because graces do show
What the love I dreamt pledged itself to,
Or smeared drunkenly on a floor.

Ah, a warm cup. Take it.
Winter's obscene coziness has brought
companions as flushed and running as the boats
where the cousins of my friend make their home
for a duration of heartfelt strokes, as the water
swoons to the prow's authorship.

The smallest changes are brought over a sip.
Late night sabotage, academic arson because
of a lack of faith, geyser-treachery- with warmth
is forgotten the level-chested month of waste,
with warmth is forgotten the limitations of pulse,
with warmth is forgotten the cold lack of touch,
warmth being gainful exploration, tight-coiled breath
like the rower and their treatment of the lake,
paddling away dead afterthoughts that float
like the fallen, broken and ****** biscuit in Hades.