it's not akin to a wine connoisseur
                                    making samples...
   air?
          and the antithesis
of the suffocation arrived at by
producing parisian perfumes?
air!
        there is no undertone of hay
in this essex air...
   it's actually its most
             highly valued facet...
mmm...
         no, not dried wheat,
                                      hay...
the **** you make bed while having
wild countryside italian *****
films...
             i have,
absolutely 0 knowledge surrounding
this affair...
           but the scent (if any)
of flowers is numbing,
  in that: such visual creatures -
   even if they had the scent of a fern,
they'd be thespian given their
already pretty appearance...
    a bit like a ******* in amsterdam's
red light district...
   prior to: pretty to look like,
that village bicycle...
          but even prettier to half-eat -
only gulping down oysters comes
near...
    imagine! eating something alive
that's half-caste
       in allowing us, a composition
of life!
           almost like a ******...
                              who goes there?
ah... slobbermouth...
           a mouth so well oiled that
it might have been in a trough
           filled with nothing but, butter!
ever eat a flower
  to ever eat a ****, less dry and more
wet?
   to loo... to loo... to lubricate
                            the entry point?
pretended tiny **** *******
my first ******...
   i have to admit:
               that foil of excess skin
you had to pierce?
                              i could have been
circumcised...
               see...
          i have two protruding veins on
my phallus entwined to bind
the ******* to me...
        a bit like... ****...
                       the staff of hermes...
july, essex, hay...
                   not exactly pears
& stairs of other cockney rhymes
involving apples...
                                                        *******...
zygfryd de löwe:
                          loo-w'eh -
   no lo' behold no leo, just:
                                the evident umlaut.
no...
               i'm pretty sure i'm
less a political animal, and more an ******
animal...
                 but it's not like:
cheap erotica...
                 it's more metaphor and less
imagery of the basis objects
     surrounding the acts in Ovid's eye
                                                   of "concern"...

ah!
    that's teasing necrophilia preparing
buthered beef, pork, or chicken...
                             in replica on a canvas of
a woman's body...
                because how can it not be
intact, cooking raw meat,
   or eating tartare steak,
              and then not touching:
      a heaving mass
                                   of warm... mmm...
thigh...
                               toe...
             knee...
                                 hair... perfume!
                                       gushing blood-orange
lips...
                   cradles of the collar bone...
the sigh of eyebrows...
                     seashells of the ear...
                        a haunting sappho recanting...
and all but the hand of
   a woman...
                as if rembrandt's
                                             face of god,
                            in belshazzar's feast.