me and the Cee metat dreambodytherapy, She
speaks in Oursleep. my Real Dear
zeys, 'mmmm... Fearof theedge...
zzzz...'S onlyedgeof thefear...',
She wants me ta wake up. This may the eighteenth
notat my madeup wake,
where i attend dod-
dypollened, or more gen. doddypollpothead, withan eighth and a teenth.
Was with Her,
must rewindand replayand rewind
the very wind, play like twisted zephyr
for all a solarsystem of todays, galaxy of tonights, for us
two's fourstepping eternity. Fruity lasagne
dintevah sloide dan moigulletso smoov gurl,
as when its constituent crunchplants were
by those holdsome hands o' Yers - Hers. Where i note how
nourishin' mothernorfolk is,
anddash tajoina denomination o' winterdeists that only
in season, frum Dairum - troshin' down your freeways, tractor vectors roam...
circemblem of inspinning worriesbeensaton
be Cee's fidgetated silver ring with modest turquoise band.
Her sole adornment, She twiddles with it like
She twiddles with me, on elliptical
bidness round littlebitlittler fingers than mine. And Her thumbs - up,
worthmore than two suns, sun
and a backup sun! Her hands are a new universe
- area ****, universal, utilisaverse
plunged inta'n old universe
of dishesshining. Th'argent,
digittery - neurotically mobile - hoop of hoolyandfairly
ardency on its mundane apogee, the sideboard.
One ring not two, spun o round cross thr'eachof
Her melodies' reachlands. Her fingers
gripped become my planet, gripping like voyagers one and two
looping the loopy planets. With hands
i hold violently, for Her grabbers are rare, aren't grabby.
Thru peavyhetting i'll be their encraggler, for our chiro-
genit'-two-guild o' two intershakin', who felt gilt - new guilt'd be Youless.
We forged ******* gaunt-
lets ta slap the washingup, ******* armour nitid too tight for
the ghost of love ta infiltrate. Is the isn'there
instant Ceeghoes? Who ghest this ghost isn't e'en pearly juxtaposed
'gainst great invalid vanilla measurement,
th'indefinite whole ghost in bloodyicecreambelievers' reali gioust beliefs?
Me, who lie if in Ceelessness, coz Hands
thatdo dishes even outshine angelicorpses
only as aeviternal as pictor'al citadel of god's milkteeth,
Hers - mine do something completely disherrant
with mildew fairy liquorice.