What would you ascend if you have a windmill and a mountain in your utopian possession? 

Won’t you write a shitty poem just to lick your cummable endurance?

 Infants inspire me to brush the last alphabet away.

Brush away…brush away…paint away…paint away…

No colour in my lowest drawer…

Only the black of eyes and distance of the Corina. 

These words ain’t no panties to make curtains over wet pussies… 

You see explosions and solecism exudated from the cosmic instinct. 

No! Animal instinct? 

Yeah…

Red velvet muffins, black coffee and the poems of air conditioned comfort.

Animal instinct…huh!!!

Advertisements