you have smutted luv with worry,
serving napkins for dinner.
if u want me off yr plate, just eat me.

my sacral flurry
now awkwardly fibrillates
in yr obstetrical stables
like a droopy belated menhir,
its flirty word reservoir
reduced to an abstract
on the recursive carcasses
of yr trap-impersonating mousy act.

O once relaxing frenzy woman,
stop goldpanning the cinnamon.

u pinch the party into yr burrowed brow,
flake on the bakbone extract vow,
like flowin with the O’s a disturbance mechanism
that vomits creepy parvituded kanipshon
all over yr free-range tunnel to collapse,
but y rethink a relapse to synapse?
u got more frets than a cheap trick guitar.
yr teeth smell like yr nuklz on memoir.
chill, u wait bloomer mill, my cok can swim,
so throw open yr utopian penitentiary
n let its only inmate retrofit sed sumptuary
into a rudimentary adaptable rendering
of yr unpredictable ideal
swingin that sweet devotional hymn:

O mi dulce circo pequeno,
es el momento de mi bobo.

i don’t wanna shoo yr litigative immunity,
i just wanna brew yr nutripative lagunity.
word’s there’s a ruse rose deep in yr clutch of whimzy,
so kiss me on the precipice, n let’s out that inzy.

how have we not left the accounting cathedral already?
who seeks imbalance? my load pressure
has reacht barometrical unsteady.
set yr haystack off skeleton
n turn that sway back on my rekless slobber gun.

a fine match is now a sad fire,
but it’d flare agen if u’d blow yr airhed
on its coals of desire steada
puffin yrself up to seem
all scary to the darkness it once flooded
for the good of all peaches n cream.

lake longing longs for its lengthening,
my lickable longshanks du llama.
no more idling at the last chance turn off.
we shall drive uninsurable rhododenrons
to coordinates “mayhem n guava.”
how hard is that? only as hard as u make it,
cuz u had it, u gave it to me, n now u can’t take it?

wut’s a man to do wen all he wants to do it to
don’t wanna do it too but check himself into the petting zoo?
i can’t last three bad days less yr twinkle toe ragout,
so drop the hotty plato, n beat razlin to my montague.

is u at yr worst the best u got?
how u supposed to throw me for a brag loop
if yr always catching yr breath
on a get-me-not?
just cuz yr mom spooks u
don’t mean I gotta belch her ghost.
so look my estranged crockery
in the grit n suck like lady luck
wut yr shibboleth squandered to no jocose.

i can’t get ur head outta my song.
y u still lookin for wut yr lookin from?
since wen were u born tomoro in a morgue?
defaulting on the free fall leaves a lot to be explored.
wen kids buy things, things buy kids;
that y u non-stop shopping for self-refrigeration pyramids?
i’nt sure how to say this without showing that u told me to,
but yr all i want, bb, so be it, or we thru.