I consume the scenery of Halloween,
impartially piercing the brooding gowns of girls who,
conforming to the timeless raindanced moons
and sweating under better moods,
fling their little masks into the void and
precious their skin melts into mine.
The groping feelers of insect heads impose
on a stark and fulfilled figure who
needs no bigger danger than the
needless release of a stranger's spring.
Flung like a frog onto the thorns of her
blooming petals and in ecstasy
deranged upon how sick and being free
she flies towards but up always reaching
unto nether maidens and whose heads have been raided
for the beds
which and onto the next ****** body they've sated
Time
and all the satellites of minute hands revolving
surround the years before you killed your calling
saying (please involve the fearful loathing
of the quarry which stalked by you befell me
to slay it and by bulging moonbeams
lick and lap of her that which remains)
and
by squealing pillow-muffled she
presses harder and into herself my shame