Bamboo Shoots The City

Drop a driblet, sip the poise
Grow in molded precipitation
Here, placid wisps mute whispers
Of craving blatant coitus

Feel em grow, tendrils tickling
Waking pains, ticking talks
Conciliation, beats lie in
Strangulation, a fine life

Bow tied arms, skeletal ties
Choke in insulated ambiance
Dear, placid wisps speak whispers
How they ostracize rotten needs

A-Bomb Ate The Law

Prophetic predilection induced by chemical arousal
Seem so precious, the themes of lament
Leech to the passel, make so strange!
Palpitate like missiles, bomb and implode!

Progress to cultural ambivalence, see see!
Intent constructing my shellfish attire
Makes so strange, make so strange!
Dangle dolls, please phone the police

Monastic infected cockpit crones
Shred him to pulp on the pulpit
Acetic sinew barbarizes love
Conceal trepidation, lurk here

Cull the sightly malefaction
Hand held thread to asphyxiate
A plash rhythmic breath
Conceal trepidation, be austere

Stifling spices, cinnamon as imagined, transparently curl from beneath meagerly whisker infested lips; they project arousal in the most intended sense. Ornate in self resolution but languid in populated eyes, he remain sexually intact only by the tip. “Suck all day, yes I do, but no, I am no fag.” Following his accusation, a turbulent demeanor takes reins, a fit likewise to that of a death threatened lobster, red face, huffy puffy, claws scratch but fists lack knowledge of action.

Midnight:09

People outnumber the lights
Shadows shade them
The affinity is tidal
As she splashes we are a choir in blinks

Shaded by morose laughter
Resurfaced as a deity of plagues
Mind their moored vessels
I felt the minute you swayed

We’ve swallowed vermillion ink
Found the nude and named
Their fine tailed species
A sloth demeaned fame

I’ve canned transient attraction.

Our loose palate roots will digest you with raw hunger. You stroke their bowels and ponder a million. Numbers are abysmal. You are forgotten without an orgy of tears.

Over indulgence has bred me anew and celibate. I thirst and lick at a casket of salt; rusted letters illustrate morbid reminiscence of when you swam like a fattened halibut in my belly. The salt cures this and I rest fulfilled.

I am a loose nut whose response to the wrench is un-mechanical.

I am surreal and chemical; my synthetic soul is wooed by overhead static of the trolley car cable. I wear suits of blackened styrofoam and spit transgender smirks at fee-line females. Mating calls in the form of jingling George’s sound from my palm. The steeply priced cats only want green, I refuse to pay tiding and proceed to fillet their mannerisms.