Hide your hickeys from mom and pops. What? I don't got hickeys well you do now, blame your curly cousins nextdoor nieghbor wish you held close clips that cost you chumps necklaces that got you caught for relishing public. You oh you, Babybash could vimit your name better than you wish you could say mine. Don't worry I cry. Don't worry I'll wait for noone like I wait for myself because I find myself like noone. I'm nobody's unplowed bootyhole without mustards sauce with the seeds, your seed girl. Got nuts? I have I'm uglier than you tooting the alphabet for Ben Afleck making quazars question why my wine's changed from Welch's. Who the ****'s welching when I stop wondering who you asked about MY welches, okay.

by this the world i mean the flesh:
the lip eye
bone sinew
ear mouth
and nose;

i mean the nerve
over buzzed
by impingement;

the shocking
and profuse
frock of the
skin,

tingling at
the rush of breath;

i mean the cold
and cadaverous
welching of
the lips not formed
about spent gas,

in rutted exersion
of its yearning atom.

(the bone and hand
are at once in play
with the muscles,
which form and
gesticulate the self;

they make as unmake
and the world lists between
their span--

gripped tightly
in the 1 moment
and let idly
in the neckst)

i have formed
myself
my hands
around the
shafts of roses

and i have never been
myself less or more
than in those moments
neither being absorbed
nor voided of presence

but only being
the hand
around which
the within
holding
the presence of a rose:

i lift
to my nose
and eat
the exsellent
PoLLEn,

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