little spade, crawling and bending and bleeding from your little brain of paraffin. the architecture of a dew trickle monologue. buttered and smeared in the poetry of your ovaries. in the saccharin of your realism, gore tendencies of a new beginning. a poly starch driven sensuality. drop keeper of spew waves of fluorescent sperms. sensual to the breast, you moan and moan. and groan and squeak, in shrills and screams. in squeaks and gawks. in drapes and beds and kettle lids. so sexual, so snarly, so spectacular. planting parafilm balls. a paresthesia. your cadence of tongue rimming, blood gushing, fist fighting breaths and heaves. and pleasure bones rattling on the precipice of the poly-amorous slut. a marzipan, chest-like will-o-the-wisp fragility. tenderness on your swim beads. your diamond hole plugs. and the tapestry of the facultative. the imaginative. the indefinite. wait who? was this a peasant, longing?
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