She’s a
muscular void,
a discrete,
intractable ditty.
A tether of
drizzled pearls
paste a gel on me
and pee on my
pride;
I’d spree on your
slide.
This is no season
to subdivide.
We plot to spay
the bruise if we
wanna fling
taboos.
Angel prose, it
don’t appease thee.
Clear students,
open up your
skies.
You don’t have
to scribble
highbrow recipes.
from After Taxes: Cover painting by ThomasFink
No comments:
Post a Comment