crown country II

sit across. you hold a nail. you rock back. and forth. the purple air. swooshes. you are dis-abled. un-abled. cross tabled. cabled to a vestige of the village crown country. you are held. with sticks and bones. your manhood intact. essayed into a booklet of the disabled country. i want to know. crown country. how you feel. when you see a man skittle across the hallway. at a ballet ball. when you sit and foam. and the elegant twirls. in pink champagne. beseeching flesh. your eyelids droop. and dribble stones. juggle bubble. imagine, if you could juggle a parody of bullets. how sentimental. i cringe in a shadow forbearance. the uterus ring that gave you whims. that killed your nails. phony air. scooped and pressed on a mere particular. you disabled man. crown country vogue. let us pull your lips. and braid your toes. carve a babe from your biblical robe. for on the pedestal. of blood baptists. you lost patience. i want to ask. if you envy me. the totality of the human body. my generous limbs. and rubicund pinch. the motion of trills on instrument and lust. do you lust? maybe you do. do you blink? maybe you do. yet. what is this totality of the human body. what is the complete? who is to say. this is the epitome of creation. without flaw. or mistake. in evolution streaks. what is the meaning of the compounded differential. of the human man. of the human woe-man. who is to say. i am the un-disabled perfectness of the creation gods. or evolve? if every seam has its set of flaws. and flawless flaw is a continuum of jargon. this pageant then is a tattoo of who is less and who is more. who, in this continuum of denomination and trend, is less of the un-abled man. but. in your mind, i want to know. do you still feel an envy?

let's look at lust. and trickery of the flesh. vile resemblance of the animal tombs. leaping over the rational. it drives you mad. stiffens your blood. makes it flow to the cove of your puppet genitals. reason flings. the rational dips. you are now a strange animal. lust so strong. you cannot breathe. you want the touch. you want the breath. you want the saliva streaming down your mane. your neck line wet. your ravenous lust. like the vascularity of the play store demons. dilated lips. and dangerous tips. perched on bone. expressionless fruit. your pounding heart. racing at lust. those hormones swell. dart through the precipice of ruby red walls. you tremble at the flip of incoherent dreams. you want the violence then. who denies. the intensity of sex. an incongruous blandness, volatile at best. an unexpected preparedness. who teaches sex? this game of love? is it a game, you practice at best? get better with time? when on the time. curiosity piques. a vortex of imagery. and deviance. when does your thought. decide on time. this orifice of blood is for a carnal lust. a blood borne pleasure ball. rolling. and shrieking. and howling in pain. laced with a hint of love? when does your clock. bedded in your eyes. invisible yet real, to the chronicity of body-works. tell you the poem of the syncopic sex. it is time. you country man. you pepper dove. shed the gown of your abstinent saints. how biology did bend over is a misery of the vacuum. but you are free. with the release of the floods. orgasm of the dizzy cones. jarring and pounding. the beam balance caress from the monologue tales. yesterday, they cried in pleasure.