Friday, December 24, 2010

Eczema Yves

It's not like it was a well-slept. Bumbling moon cat, meat-in-the-colon emissions & notchwork of nocturn's dutch ovens; flashing lights and karate kisses in the whirl and tar slicks of side by each/wide sendings, alkaline and rubber fleet, carpeting the room to room with heralds of paz and boastings, beastings, reflexive and abdominal, abominable dreams... feral number one, feral number two, feral number three; chasms bridged by damnable authors-- foulers and fondlers, the lot-- catching the imprint so poetically, imbuing tiny caresses, threesomes, running and hiding and finger swiping secreting; edible eyebrows, steady undone that stoic, now alit in dirt soundings, measured in the rope of itself uncoiled cloister and coitus exemplified in testy pyres, shower colds, able hottings, esteem in a salmon son-- all red and bulbous bleu, veiny for search mechanisms, and having found: still laughing many, many hours later. Unreachable by sea, land, air, or the interweave, the you-topics and personal topples founded in merry stones and shy shivers, all these did a pull. Four, five, six, and eleven: it could go and go and keep on betraying the morning. Sun's bidding. Nothing more at stake. Chance to dream again? She and she shined more... chaos truth, plied for hours, thanked, shat, washed, and still riotous.


(eyes used for tooth support)


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