Dictating the pressure and pleasure of a thousand suns.
The sounds of you mouth, lungs, tongue rung for a thousand more
Whispered of a dwell of a thousand lunge
Hips lunge and such enough to ****
And succor, what fur is enough, not ever
But weathered by a thousand doves
And shoves of what not and so forth
Withered flowers but like ripe grape and onion
Layer upon lair
Indulging in the cake of your whatnot and so forth
Going so forth and what not till a thousand suns what not and so forth
Over and over, rolling hills and billows of beaming sun break into onions showering what not from the mouth, lung and tongue with enough so forth to erupt, quake and brake a thousand lungs
And do
More and more what not and so forth until withered flowers retire
Spires and the places they what is
What is this to say, not ever grasped but sough and wrought after with a thousand lunge tiring to a day or night or whenever when a new dawn is
A thousand kings wither at it away until the so forth and what not is delivered from its own what not and somethings akin to belonging is shone
I would love to follow this up with some deeper understanding or insight into what manifested this odd little poem. All I can say is another rambunctious, bruising excursion - a foray into Love's quarter. But all the more inspiration to keep searching was found therein as well, despite all the tumbling and misuse of hearts.