You can’t cook with it.

so that all sounds receivedcome only through the left,from which they pass insideand take up residencewhere kinesthetics live,and then, as sudden as they camethey sound like kisses from your lipsthat have turned into golden shooting stars.And I awake from lethargy to bea catcher leaping high.I cannot bear for even one to go astray.

I say all time is fickleit never talks of hope.We touched and talked for hoursthe minutes oozed to groundsurrounded by fine flowerswe held what we had found.Today we’re reminiscinghow precious each short daysomehow a kiss is missingour past has gone away.We never knew to treasureeach moment that we hadour souls have stored the pleasureof that…

a subtle breeze carriedwhat is really indescribable,but it settled on me,covering my skin with balm,invisible to the eye,inviting in its nakednessand flooding the stemwith sanguinous fluids,producing, by meiotic division,an offering of peaceto be gracefully acceptedwithin caves of willingness,and tasted by the tongues of lust,a journey into hapless destiny,yet with its secret planpassed on to man…

for shaky health.

Mum said go boy, and playbut she’s wandered away,could be scared of me thoughts about kissing.Well, I’ll wait by the paperbark treewith my liverwurst sandwich and tea.Hold the mustard, she hatesthe Dijon on our dates,she’s crazy as crazy can be.Cut the mustard, it’s got to be done,without mustard no sandwich is fun.But I’ll give you…

I shall tolerate, indeedall the sounds and then the patterof the tiny, hurried feetthat accompany your stresses,chills and fever, welcome heat,looking up to He who blessesand who hears my kindly words.Emperors in purple dressesfly away like drunken birds.