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Her flamingo feet flinging,
tipping, and kicking men into a flutter
It’s them or me—that thunder; I’ll ******.
I’m stirred up and monologue-ing:
smoky lungs deeply stroking hot fires freely stolen.
Exhale, esteemed son.
******* then concentration:
spot all the dealings—
Our collective discourse;
collaborative, of course.
Force a real proper steal,
and linger on a plate we should sit down to, chew, perhaps do a few…
Meditations of the wise ones on the side:
low-key surmising ways to go in—
and come out: hot pop quality;
positively in great quantity.
Society watching the mood I’m mixing: an addiction
feeding her every volition.
Feeling just a little out of place
in that space—
convicted of an ****** condition.
Shaded off-site: centered.
That cocktail’s swooping in slyly,
then creeping on hot.
No choice but to vibe to it,
ride through it,
and arrive at a certain point.
Cursive lines make me curse the times
where there’s nothing left
except rational satisfaction.
Her lips unfold—were they really yours to hold?
Choose: tonight or tomorrow?
Sleep or sweep her off those feet?
Slowly dose it.
Always the smell of rains
staining them wavy blue.
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