Amok
Now my spade is suctioned out, not my execrated bum rungs, the blonde coal glow of my latrine wrist, it is not my lattice licked by no one but you, stalled aphid in the, I dunno, snatch? hear the arse rays hay air yawn -- bent panties not in my presence, not in my striated diacritical terseness, not in my tottering eye in the infatuated vitrine flunking to hear me embellish my graspable saliva strings, you cannot hear the tin niche in the mine, can you? Not in my dented dome chrome, not in yr accelerating flint erupting in my nozzle's veins, my hour mottled frond crud, my torn codes jerking off upon the roughage behind the perspiring kneecaps of words, fragments of the bubbling bulk of my staggering behind, behind my stalled breathing gone amok -- my "extra crispy" cheapness, not humbleness, not my wavering dullness lost like a doorknob in the sight of putty lips, brick stallions trundling after a box of creaking tails, the feeling of sinking death stinking up my striated mines -- they are all mine, it's awful, not hours, not yours: warped vulvar carillons, barbed male teat meat, sweltering vulval flow, one flaw-shrinking snot-softened leaf, my bilious dimness tangled up with the paraleipsis of constipated excrescences' pure pink succor-beguiling precipices -- O my shattered "I" is not worn out without me, without you within this wee hoarfrost hour, retching threadbare windshield popped out, ineradicably, beside the junkyard graveyard -- rehearse the slangy obliquity of the burbling blurb --Bob BrueckL
