back you are in my cyberarms
please do pardon my stare
when we hug, crushing ribs
I may melt at the thought of your charms.
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The Postie came,
the street, up fromthe beachfront.The brown that bit himhe had killed butsome bad venomhad destroyedsoft tissue inthe ankle region.He now sings out,when steppingover the habitat‘Oh, snakes alive’,so far he has been luckyin our lucky country.Today he handed me,an envelope, all blue.It came from overseassent by a poetessewho is a veritable bundleof pleasant sunshineyou know the…
Some Yankee supermarket malls
And in between the Malls and wallsyou’ll find the male and female stalls.In one of them they flash their ballsthe other one is used by dolls.The sanctuary of these hallsis sought by all when Nature calls.
Wisconsin, well known for its cheese
is also home to womenfolkwho tell a mean erotic joke,most of the maidens carry muchin solidarity as suchto bovine friends, two shapely bumps(the sight will melt the fiercest grumps) .One day, the sun was kissing grassesand (somewhat speckled) Holstein asses,when teacher Zelda went to townin a light pink, revealing gown.The forecast had been for some…
At six-eleven, precisely,
then yawns and marchesto the back door.To do her ‘business’out in the worldof toads and frost.Ears shakingnew found energy,high speed into the warmthand back to feather covers,on birchwood frame.Just right for a small child.Resuming that familiar snore,until, much later,when the routine of daylighttakes away the boredom.When darkness fallsshe volunteersand snoozes soundlyuntil six-eleven, precisely.I kid you…
They all are, those bitches,
nothing can wait a second longer,tomorrow le deluge perhaps,I swear I did not promise,I never said that, tit for tat,you took advantage, right,only a woman will stoop so low,what are you trying to do,be a merchant, do deals,you could have asked nicely,I have always been an orderly, cleanand exceedingly pedantic one,spotless, inside and out,I would…
The postman rang,
his Irish Twangsounds pretty nice,delivering to affluentsbeats ‘cross the trackswhere they have stashed the effluents.Dear John, or Max,the letter readwhen you read thisour love is dead.Sealed with no kiss.I won’t be ringing on the phone,though writing suckswithout the tone.Well, here’s some ducksand pelicansand John Greene Deerechews jellykinsand sprays the weirgoes round and roundand squints his…