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I wonder what net I can knit to capture you And what tints I can sift to loose this nasty hue

Monday, January 30, 2006

sullied thoughts for disposure

Charles Whitimore’s gilded cock
36 rusted musket locks
beaded eyes in v-shaped flocks
head in south for the squid kill docks

sippin’ straw round the curve of the wrist
torso born phallic tubular cists
cataractic clasps to subdue the list
viscous sewer side one way kiss

a ball of the foot laceration mood
palm slide up the tentacle fluid
dusky chink peering distance crude
submerge to drown kill all the genital food

eye fuck
closest thing to anything at all
ear cup
a response to the deciduous call

a lackluster filibuster glint
Milk Tint


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