"licorice" poems
Glistening with wetness,
fingers fitting in like Tetris.
Cream dripping on the mattress.
Pillow firming press against your ****
gyrating to the thoughts of being licked.
Then ****** on like a twisted piece of licorice.
Pleasure leaking from your body through your hips
Desire holding your body captive like a hypnotist
Your skin crawling with desire screaming it's fix
Drowning your finger in a pool of your juices
Your hips ****** and twist,
and mind, lift and dip.
Our bodies working a full shift,
like we were built for each others fit.
You biting on the sheets,
I'm biting on your lip,
****** at the same time;
when our world eclipse-
our-space doesn't exist.
Off to another world,
a briefly escape to,
a pleasure abyss.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 9:24 PM UTC
the planets. the peaches.
pruned. picked. for the reaches.
the centuries. a second to the eternities.
you can have it. say laugh when. you hear the jazz note.
the voice of all that i spoke. the saxophone.
like dialing digits of truth. on the telephone.
come on. say one and two. up and down. the diversity in one single crown.
upon the ears of sound. it's the heart's listening device. toss it like rice.
at a wedding. human genes get paired up. and twisted.
so simple. it comes in flavors of licorice. red and black.
off and on. check the track. when the needle skips.
we find all these differences.
let me bring it back. for diversity.
zeroes and ones. spread the spectrum. across high and low frequencies.
it's so easy. let the record speak. can you stay on beat.
the principles of the high. the sincerity of the meek.
whatever lies between. is one or the other. blended across the centuries.
and all mothers. give birth to the last. man to the first.
follow that. discussion of high low.
mid ranges get blown. saxophone pace the flow. get pricked by the tweeters.
soul from the bass feeders. save the appetite. for the words that i write.
and then speak. you you. not me. splitting hairs. atoms. quarks. and light.
beams. like a smile. across a broad spectrum. either off. always on.
high low. then get gone.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
Glistening with wetness,
fingers fitting in like Tetris.
Cream dripping on the mattress.
Pillow firming press against your ****
gyrating to the thoughts of being licked.
Then ****** on like a twisted piece of licorice.
Pleasure leaking from your body through your hips
Desire holding your body captive like a hypnotist
Your skin crawling with desire screaming it's fix
Drowning your finger in a pool of your juices
Your hips ****** and twist,
and mind, lift and dip.
Our bodies working a full shift,
like we were built for each others fit.
You biting on the sheets,
I'm biting on your lip,
****** at the same time;
when our world eclipse-
our-space doesn't exist.
Off to another world,
a briefly escape to,
a pleasure abyss.
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 10:49 AM UTC
Here.
Attempting to write something
To match your eyes.
Something that will make you see things
The way I see things.
Noticing.
Every mark.
Torn by fences climbed
To get away from those who didn't take your hand
And fly.
They left intricate laddered rips in your jeans,
Though you try to hide the fact that you know,
That I know that is the case.
We play childish games of denial
Because all romance is to be transported to a time when we were innocent.
Back to a place where ‘I love you’ is what your parents said
When all the screaming, laughter
And the innocence of loud noises stop
And is replaced by silence.
‘I love you’ made that warm feeling
Growing and radiating out
Eventually finding the tips of your fingers and ends of your toes
And bursting out,
Moving through to the next person you touch.
*Contrary to popular practice,
‘I love you’ is not just three words to be said
When you are trying to break the awkward silences
Left between two people who have simply gotten used to each other.*
I love red licorice.
It gives me a warm feeling of sugary goodness.
Though artificial,
In the times when the weight of the world is the weight of your sheets
That lay a top of your body
Which you tell yourself over and over and over
It is not good enough for that person
Who gives you the inner warmth
That a campfire gives your shins;
I find that artificial red licorice warmth is good enough.
And sometimes good enough is the best we can get.
Here.
In the hope that the words that must be said
Stream from ink to page.
I hope my hand moves so fast over the page
That smoke starts flowing and my words mean something...
But no words come.
No letters.
No ink scratches the page.
I just want you to see the way I do.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 7:48 AM UTC
She, a cavernous champagne glass,
he, a weary pony, who ate the neighbor's grass--
her name Ms. Wesson,
his name Mr. Smith,
they died on a slow Tuesday--
and stop looking Wesson clan,
if looking for a lesson.
Mid-afternoon
midst a love bent 69
Mr. Smith and Ms. Wesson
committed murder-suicide--
Mr. Smith turned from a man
back into a stain,
Ms. Wesson turned from a woman
back into a chain.
And the artist-in-neighborhood did rejoice,
subject matter for a painting to hang above
his licorice-colored memorial of a prisoner dove.
And the police did gossip,
was it love? was it ***********
What a fine piece of *** that could be living.
And it took the families two weeks to find out,
they wiped their feet on dead leaves,
daydreamt open caskets and planted juniper seeds.
Talk of another woman, talk of another man,
but God himself would tell you,
they were simply bored of each other's drugs,
they were simply bored of each other's barrels,
so, they barred each other from being,
and headed west on erosion's dime.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 8:31 PM UTC
*all my life i held a dream
of a woman i would love
of course
she would be alluring
supple
a charming countenance
erudite, with an angelic face
her body
a muscular stretching willow
arching her legs over head
kissing her own
curving soft feet
a graceful contortionist
in confetti colored sparkle pantyhose
stretching towards me
silken hair draping a perfect symmetry
with spun sugar kisses
wafting the scent of vanilla
and candied vaporous breath
lips like cherry lozenges
but
one never knows ones destiny
i met her
my girl destiny
and except for a faint look of languor and ruin
with a tinge of withering
she was without doubt unbearably titillating
with razor-thin blackened lips
mascara slits for eyes
hair pulled straight back
jet black
jelled like hardened licorice
with satanic blood rivulets
and pitch fork tattooed ****
a vice of lechery
a malefaction of moral turpitude
her *** scarred from orgiastic beatings
her **** became
like a large wrinkly mouth
resembling the face of a bullfrog
from pleasuring herself with
tableware cutlery
her soul
a broken creel
suffering bouts of anxiety
like a weeping moon
having been institutionalized
in Mother Marys Hell House
from a ghastly bout of parricide
her father,
a hobbling gloomish troll
while the dark veins of mother
ran through her soul
leaving little choice
but to dispatch
the parents
abandoning their corpses in the kitchen
like strewn litter
turned out
just my
kinda
girl
d
e
s
t
i
n
y
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 9:14 AM UTC
I nearly fell out of my comfortable chair
when I heard some sexologist declare:
“The scent of licorice in the air
makes men and women want to pair.
Far more effective than cologne,
Use licorice or you’ll sleep alone.”
Some say Chocolate gets you “Honey”-
I say try some “Good and Plenty”
Remember Charlie? he was an engineer
He didn’t drink coffee and abstained from beer
“Charlie had an engine and he sure had fun
He used “Good and Plenty” candy
cause it made his “train” run”
For all I know, this tale is baloney
Licorice may leave you ***** and lonely.
But if you are lonely and feeling forlorn,
candy’s much cheaper than rhinoceros horn.
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 4:46 PM UTC
Strangers known
by shared room
Honey voiced , high cheek *****
no less, no more
Licorice words pounding
on a chest
scrambling to wrap fingers
around a single perfumed breath
Two days dragging on
pulled through mud
stuck in fog
seconds are hours too long
Then ringing came
answered by drops of syrup
pouring out a reply, yes!
drinking it in with big gulps.
Mirror reflects practiced hellos
swishing hair put in place
teeth and lips splitting
breaking through stone face
Pacing back and forth
frantic footsteps pounding
crushing carpet in a line
south, north, south, north
No ring, no change
red blushes fad grey
phone silent, gaze up
stare blank
Is the swooshing hair the wrong way?
Is the grin too toothy?
Is the face not constructed right?
Stood up and let down
sailor on a ship
already sunk and drifting
off the starboard bow
Stood up and let drown
by the honey voice
the high cheek bones
Failure in hindsight sighing
“I should have known
I should have known…”
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 3:31 AM UTC
The Lollipop King, with his mighty staff,
Flavored all the colors of the rainbow,
Enticing me with what he has
To places where I must not go.
His lust-soaked pheromones masked with licorice
Entice the hearts of the fair maidens of the land.
While I too have fallen victim to his confectionary wishes,
Of this courtship and this romance became something unplanned.
I have now found my way into this lollipop dynasty,
Becoming another member of this sisterhood of sugar.
But the difference with me, if you’ll lean close, you see,
Quoth the Lollipop King, “I do not want to lose her.”
And always alone I’ll say to myself:
When will his time come to place me on the shelf?
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 7:43 AM UTC
I don't know what he was to others—
fireworks, lemonade, ants crawling on a picnic blanket—
but I always knew him at his worst.
He was sleep cycles shaped like carnival pretzels,
days that bled together,
weeks that clumped like a rat king
under floorboards in the beach house.
He spoke in clouds
swollen with diluvian rain,
daggers of lightning
cracking the river in half,
the language of a muggy body in sticky room
staring out a window
at absolutely nothing.
The sort of stuff that makes me think
he didn't know his own strength,
most of the time.
As always, when he died this year
he died by degrees,
bedridden in the hospice of September.
I listened to his death rattle
of rustling yellow leaves
and watched the last of the fireflies
crawl from between his parted lips.
When he went cold for good
I built a pyre out of his firewood bones.
The ashes fell into the soil
like seeds in waiting, and I watched
the moon grow so large that it stretched
the nighttime like candy licorice
and made it longer than before.
My duty done, I turned to go.
The smoke rose up to embrace the sky,
and at the time, I could have sworn
that from the corner of my eye
I saw it curl around
and wave at me.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 9:27 AM UTC
He wants a sugar spun girl-
no lemon ***** no licorice, no peppermint.
Hard rock candy.
You gotta be sweet for him to crave you.
Sweet on the tongue, sweet on the eyes
in a package easy to tear, pop, unfold.
He likes it dayglo and with sprinkles,
marshmallow soft,
moldable and meltable ,
milk chocolate, white chocolate.
He shies away from bitterness.
Don't you dare fill him up.
He has a real meal waiting,
somewhere else, later.
Your job is
to be consumed.
What you need doesn't matter.
He wants candy, girl, not a meal.
Better sugar coat it,
or he won’t buy you
and you want to be bought,
don't you?
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC
Tommy is three and when he's bad
his mother dances with him.
She puts on the record,
"Red Roses for a Blue Lady"
and throws him across the room.
Mind you,
she never laid a hand on him.
He gets red roses in different places,
the head, that time he was as sleepy as a river,
the back, that time he was a broken scarecrow,
the arm like a diamond had bitten it,
the leg, twisted like a licorice stick,
all the dance they did together,
Blue Lady and Tommy.
You fell, she said, just remember you fell.
I fell, is all he told the doctors
in the big hospital. A nice lady came
and asked him questions but because
he didn't want to be sent away he said, I fell.
He never said anything else although he could talk fine.
He never told about the music
or how she'd sing and shout
holding him up and throwing him.
He pretends he is her ball.
He tries to fold up and bounce
but he squashes like fruit.
For he loves Blue Lady and the spots
of red roses he gives her
4.8k
Things were looking up that day
Not a thing could get in my way
I was making my way through the town
When the clouds rolled in and rain came down
I thought, “Okay, don’t make my day nice and sunny,
I’ll go find a movie that’s funny.”
I went downtown to look around,
No good movies were to be found!
I looked inside a movie store
All I found were sad movies galore
“A real tearjerker,” one proclaimed
“Heartbreaker?” I exclaimed
“No good movies, just my luck.
I guess I’ll go feed the ducks.”
I walked there and what did I meet?
Twelve angry geese that attacked my feet
“Well, that’s just fine and dandy,
You can’t go wrong with some candy,”
Once I got there, lo and behold,
Black licorice and butterscotch, getting old.
“Well ***** it, I’m going home.
Maybe I’ll make a latte with foam.”
What did I find there in the complex?
Old Man Carruthers died with a hex
****** ****** his wife cried out
She screamed and screamed and ran all about.
****** I tell you, And I know who!”
And with grace, she pointed at me and yelled, “YOU!”
They called the police and took me away
Now here I am clutching my cafeteria tray
I have advice, walkaway when things get rowdy,
And remember, sunny days can turn cloudy
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 3:39 PM UTC
She is My cream nicotine
The
Surging through our blues
The fluidity of divinity
Juxtapose
Whoever said love was easy…
Yeah 'Ol Chap, they Sure had it right,
Because no man or lady can ever Subtract
Once their hue has mixed it can never go back.
2 Whipped Cream and Other Delights.
And why would you?
The dregs are bitter,
The milk too sweet.
If you water it down then
All flavor retreats
Life is just better off Bitter-Sweet,
Cream never asks coffee
On how it should mix
Why do we attempt these liquid alchemy tricks?
The intrusion is dilution of the Makers choice
Through imperfection comes the lesson
Learned perception with each sip
The air red dried truth
The
Words stuck to the lips
Tasters Digest the last drink drips
Yet I question why I am so subject
to infusion
Her meaningful quips
Why we attempt these liquid alchemy tricks?
Still I question why I am so subject
to the infusion of Her
Dips
Sometimes I call it Love
Sometimes I call it Quits
For You My Dear
Let's Cheers Another Grip
of
Seared Buds and Belly Aches
and
Lactose Licorice
So
Pour Another! while the Argument still in Air
and
While Dilutions of gratification Grind into Frothy Despair
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 8:13 PM UTC
seductive effective cutlass sadistic
serendipity and la la la
licorice liquor lick her and plastic
roses rise relentless resentment
time mime rhyme desire
sentiment sincerely aspire admire
anonymous synonymous simultaneous symmetry
molasses disastrous syntactic mirrorly
Samir sincere severe severe
la la la love na na na never
samirly this way
suicide sinister cynical silence
stop and stare
care and share
love with or without violence
sloppy seconds menace a menace
minus a life structure dependence
relevance relevance irrelevance
sense tense and meaninglessness
sincerely samirly
synthetic systemic sense
cents cents
sense sense
cents
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 12:23 AM UTC
Each individual jelly-belly
jellybean in a clear bag
tied with a red wire
is so different from each
other individual jelly-belly
jellybean in that clear bag.
The one that I find,
without fail,
without fault,
is always the one that
tastes like black licorice.
The sticky, overly sweet,
bitter black gunk that junks
up my perfectly good bag
of jelly-belly jellybeans,
and I am never paying
enough attention
to catch myself
before I pop it
into my mouth,
unaware that I will be
receiving: not cotton candy,
not coconut, nor cherry or lime,
but a black piece of bitter-sweetness,
whose taste always seems to linger.
Feb 21, 2012
Feb 21, 2012 at 3:18 PM UTC
There’s a place, where licorice vines have climbed,
Deep in the night, that only children can find;
Where leaves of waxed paper on trees are hung,
And what grows on the branches is sweet to the tongue.
Garlands of butterscotch, chocolate, and mint,
In their bright wrappers, sparkle, and glint;
Bubbling springs of sarsaparilla, through the valley are poured,
Washing sugar beaches with reeds of sour chord.
Swedish fish swim in soda geysers with bliss,
While fizzing pop-rocks spurt, spittle, and hiss.
Sunset clouds of cotton candy sweep past in the sky;
Trees sway in the delicious breeze that smells like apple pie.
Skies will rain down skittles, when there is a storm,
Pelting molasses window panes in a giant swarm;
Sour gummi worms are dug up, free to take,
In the grainy, nutmeg layers of the coffee cake.
Carmel creams, Mary Janes, Black Jacks, and Almond Joys,
Coconutties, Jawbreakers, Carmel Rolos and Long Boys--
All these grow, in lines straight as peppermint sticks,
Planted in brown sugar, on fields of cinnamon toothpicks;
But when the sun lets out its first ray,
The entire land just melts away
And children don’t remember where they’ve been,
That whole night asleep, but they wake with a grin;
And through the whole day, their dreams will entice,
Until they visit again, the Land of Sugar and Spice.
8/9/11
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 4:32 PM UTC
coupon for Granny's Original 32% All Natural Oatmeal®
cart-to-cart down aisle 48 and this man's an affront to khakis
and this woman's brain runs off a child's complaints
BLIZZARD 2013
according to the radar, buy 80 pounds of rock salt
from The Home Depot®, more saving. more doing.™
more rock salt. more doing
BLIZZARD 2013
according to the radar, buy two-weeks-worth of tuna,
a pallet of Pepsi Max®, and four loaves of Baker Good's NeverMold Bread®
all for $21.99 with your Sam's Club® Rewards Card
BLIZZARD 2013
cart-to-cart down aisle 62 where once there was soda, now an I.O.U.
and I read on the internet that the preservatives in diet cola will keep
my body from decomposing and I read on the internet that these
dented, discount tuna cans will give me botulism
BLIZZARD 2013
one jug of water from a spring in Mountain View, Arkansas
one jug of water from a spring in New Iberia, Louisiana
picking between Miley Cyrus and Hannah Montana
the pitter-patter on the warehouse roof reassures
time for eenie meenie miney mo
BLIZZARD 2013
and the intercom desperate for a cart wrangler
customer service now open for checkout
don't leave your toddlers alone in shopping carts
they're choking on free samples
with an echo, raindrops strike parking lot pools
just past the intersection an ambulance grumbles
BLIZZARD 2013
in a room with a view wishing the windowpane weatherized
beers bought by volume, candles forgotten, six months of
licorice, EverFluff® popcorn, and hand warmers of chemical kind
remembered
BLIZZARD 2013
will not be landing in the city, watch out for that rain though
if the temperatures drop below 32 degrees it could ice over
and if the temperatures don't, well, it won't
News 7's coverage of Blizzard 2013 brought to you by
The Home Depot®, more saving. More doing.™
and Sam's Club®, savings made simple.™
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 2:40 PM UTC
Hold it!
whole ***
whale fitting
room
bowing walls
expanding spandex
seams stretched out of shape
lurid –
disturbed images play across the screen
biggest loser season MCMXVII
American dream with heavy cream
and spleenwiches
cleaning the crumbs,
bums long for an extra morsel
gnawing on dorsal fins
grinning, toothless, at least they have their figures
that figures says the emaciated diet queen
leave it to the homeless to be the only group
worthy of the runway –
starvation date
only the grumbling cuts the uncomfortable silence
empty bellies howl for nourishment
instead are fed meds and red licorice
which is immediately vomited
for fear of caloric inconsistency –
breathing adds blubber
to thighs and midriffs
marital spiff over the last cookie
sugar substitutes
substituting themselves for love and compassion
lashing out at the one above
fat girls with teary eyes cry
for just five more pounds
the dress fit in 1978 –
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
I read him one of my poems
He complemented my mechanics
And although part of me laughed
Wondering how he heard me breathe the commas
Heard my spelling bee winner's letter placement
Still
The notion stuck
Steadfast
Push-pinned in my memory
In the neglected space where kind gestures live
I told him how I appreciated it
I should've told him
Boy no no
You don't understand
My mechanics need fixing
No not my grammar boy
I should've told him to volunteer
Sweet boy
I know hands are easier to work with than words
Touch me with both
Shhhh sweet boy
Fix me with your good nature
Let it wash over me
Wash away my grime
You needn't a good speaking voice
But a good intention
Warming arms
To thaw me
Couldn't hurt
But sweet boy
Too bad
We all grow sick of licorice
And I broke you
Like the mantelpiece momma told me not to play around
I broke you
For a less sweet boy
With a politician tongue
And words soaked in muddy motives
I broke you
Hardened you
Into a less sweet boy
With a polititia- err
Salesman tongue
And words soaked in muddy motives
I left you
Gone with the wind
You were the Rett
In the search for my Ashley
But he broke me
Like the soldiers countenance heading to combat
He left me
Wondering
Where all the sweet boys could have gone
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC
If I knew you were a super-villain i wouldn't have cared.
I would have a rationale. A flower behind my back to tempt you from your weakness for black licorice
and white lies. I would find an excuse to love you.
If I had known you were a super-villain
I would have spiked your drink with Love Potion No.9
and finding you impervious; consider my options
and hope for the best.
IF i had known this would never work out, you and me, you being a total ***** me being a fool;
i would have stayed the course and seduced you to make you mine
my very own special pain in the *** that has bewitched me....
I would have thrown myself under the bus; sipping a dry martini with a rye smile
i would have succumbed to what i knew you could be; if only...
I'd let us happen
anyway.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 11:58 AM UTC
She hopes, silently, that he will chase her,
catch her in his embrace and smother her
with feverish kisses.
He wants to glance back, towards the stinging
sun, towards the opposite direction she has stayed in
and beacon her with words of licorice.
She wishes to let her voice drown the antagonistic
opposition to their current disposition and listen
attentively to reciprocated admissions.
But they cannot, will not, because
this is not a fairy tale, this is not a fantasy, this
is the sad reality of both decisions.
And so torn apart between letting go or
catching to,
they walk away towards opposite directions.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC
They're a funny lot, some of these poets,
feisty feminists, dreamers, anti-money,
and even some who are very self-defecating
about themselves.
And then there's the literary, learned allusion lot,
and some who've got their eye on eternity, that's what,
and others who rub too much turps on the **** of their imagination.
But it's the long-winded poets who make me squirm,
and for god’s sake, give me a bottle of red wine when the ones
with blue-rinse hair get up to have their turn.
They're terribly nice, but they need an echidna
stuffed right up you know where - at least once, if not twice.
And give me another bottle of the red, even if it's rough,
or better still a whole case of that stuff,
just to protect me from those who bleed too much in poems.
Psychoanalytic stuff makes me paralytic
and I have to stifle groans.
But most of all, I like the poets with their tongues on fire,
the ones who lick lightening before they write
and who throw a sizzling poem down
like a thunderbolt from Zeus.
I like poems marsh mellow soft and bitter-sweet, too,
and those oozing with the juice. And if a poem's loud and flash,
so what? I like a bit of swagger, with shameless **** and ***
And sometimes, I just like words that rhyme with licorice,
Dionysius, Priapus, Bacchus and preposterous!
Also, what the **** a poem can even give offense.
Poets sometimes need to do this to stop indifference.
They call this poet's license, but really,
indifference is the only hell from which
us poets need deliverance.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 6:56 AM UTC
We run blind,
Hair blowing, arms flailing as
Blithe heart’s make a blind start
Into the sweet unknown.
Stop.
Taste the tangy so-its-sore,
Make-your-eyes-screw-up
More-than-your-contorted-face
Sweets.
Such as licorice sherbet straws.
Poor blind hearts.
Caught in the net of Time,
Sickly sweet now obsolete,
My heart starts to beat
Away from my running feet.
I don't like those straws no more.
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 11:05 AM UTC
Inside your little mouth, a crucifix and a hula hoop plant great capers on the short hash marks on your glossy pinkish lips. Like a boardgame I can't win all by myself or a song without a tune, like the melody that chases strangers, or any words that precede goodbye.
The future is coming quickly now, serfs lining up to set fire to their nostrils, take the cue ball and whet their mass wicks for the apostles. Anecdotal anomaly that J-walk over crosswalks whose life then becomes an apostrophe. Morbid fixture on the substrate, creatures limitlessly nodding. A grape-sized egg fills its own unit and erupts to shape the outlet. Your verb-legs may appear demonstratively while you crowd surf, we should play the music louder while we practice all our dance work.
Sunday morning we wake up stiffly, my jowl hurts from mouthing softwords, the nights' adventurous perversity of thwarting dinosaurs with Cobra Starship. Even the back room closet manager gave us enough bleach to see our eyelids, frothy nictitating flitters drop freshly severed lashes that inspire wishes and sultry playlists.
Consecrated mien market of company meals. Underneath the cable cars the dye blunders sores in my eyes. Said I had to go, said I had to die. Said I had an itch but I couldn't get in front of all of this and unwind. Between all of the bees and buttered flies he made it hard for us all to survive, or service this state of our lives. I recall schoolyards where children paid to their dimes for us to see the spaces in the middle of lines, the circles on the circles we liked, stuck in bubble baths with crayon all on their hands. For the price of staying alive I deliver a bribe to sway eyes from the crimes of street dwelling inner-city sinners with stomach contents' upsetted by the rough ********* of heavy petting. She eats red licorice rope with with my fingers rubbing on her tongue. A pedagogy I use to teach, but pretty much no longer have a use.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC