The stanchions are open. Halloo! Allow yourself into the show, the brave declaration of sanity, the bright strokes the trees print against the sky. The sky with its scarring, the souls we wish there, the flying that hunts there, tradewinds, skylights, the whole nine.

Whippersnappers unite! Untie the wisdom from its belt, it’s choking all of us in its synecdoche. Brilliant uppers, starling downs to describe the wet welt of your face in the moon. I found you hot and hard along my spine, springing sprang melodies and breath.

This is why I should become a conceptual artist, I tell you and you agree and you’re lying. No one thinks these things through, the gutfuck harmonies I hear your head has hobbled you. It’s me, all these yous are me and they’re harfing the rump of disaster rut.

Smolder my belly with your crimson whiskers. Sip my whispers up your skin. Arm myself with your torso, I bring you brought down and it’s over like a lemon. All out, all around the armory have you let me allow myself to bring you up this far, only to trunkle?

Broad-sung harmonies, the harmonics of your image has raised the hairs of my lemon lips, the briners. I pickly bring myself up against your skin, raise my hairs against destruction, the sex is bought with little deaths and trucked back over the border frontiers.

The stanchions are open would you come with me skip the line and tell it lemon reel and slivered. Tell it wide and shipped, whiply in the dung thrush of your voice, the face I couldn’t articulate but smelled of copper dust tangy melon and salt the slap of hot salt.

The yous that are not me are sweet like geranium leaves. Clover and its implications, honey, scarlet hides of pollen-laden bees. You are clean, so clean. I saw you at the microphone, I turned my face in flush, the heat of creation, a clay runs my legs, dries in runnels gray.