tell me of love...
for the blithe specters of floridly stained relics are upon me, against
the sidereal daylight of waxing rubbish, his
venusian tongue errs, though not often, how
agreeably the angels shiver amongst the stardust, their laughter, his fingers
tickling bloodshot cherry from between my gauche, honest thighs, he
smolders in the jealous habañero cauldrons of apprehension, whilst
degenerate things creep lovelorn into my past, and
ensure the gypsies this bittersweet chocolate of our satisfaction
is theirs.
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