like the chill wind of a razor blade as it cuts into a cactus heart. i can hear the sound of the crow. i can hear the sound of the magpie. reach for my pistol mama. play my totem fabric with your fingerless gloved hand. lay me down so that i can sleep.
upon your milky breasts.
upon your sweet thighs.
upon the scented heart of you that flutters pink like a ladies purse. keep the honey chain slick and pour me an ale. an ale and some confection for the disease of that heaven that flys open beneath the stars of creation. i caught your midnight.
rolled it in the palm of my hand. like tobacco in a pig pouch.
like the rancid taste of england stewing as it ferments in its womb of confussion.
2 comments:
england is very stewey
crap quisine by and large but some is good. italina dn thai are my favs though.
oh, and maybe mexican.
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