Your portmanetau, eclectic, swirly,
listless wavy honest crack-whipped
shebabble, sits playfully in the position
between a grey-day snug in socks and
one layered with hackneyed shouts,
literal interpretations and violence.
In short, the way you bathe in meticulous
detail and awkward swallowing is risk,
handcuffed to the cornerpost, bound,
gagged, seductively cocooned in soft
marshmallow sheets and billows of
wind. Chocolate has nothing on you.
And you in parts is art, esoterically.
The insubordinate outline, wafting
silhouette, erosion sculpture, hard
to ask where exactly your head is at -
thereabouts exactly portraying that
philandering accent you call your tongue -
head home, eyes shut, foot down,
blind alley. Shocking candy stuck in
the tooth. Popping rocks. Sour knuckles.
Velvet wraps. You're acrid, perhaps.
Otherwise svelt, and caramel/mac.
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