Monday, December 6, 2010

WHAT SHE’S MADE OF THEY MADE HER OF

Anatomical wind chimes is what male thought
made of her by entering at just the right speed. 
A marionette with a degree in knots, her PTSD
gestures constituted the money shot. Check out
these shameful reunifications: anti-gravity syndrome
gets it from brothel acupuncture’s gilded pogos.
Who patented the painkiller output? She was not
really fooled by the crap in the mail, by
yuletide berserkers and 5-minute jerkers,  
sitting on a cocoa throne with points of view
like a flurrying leak. On the bright side of the caribou,
there was a real woman, although lesbian jazz –
clenching the horns between its jaws – still
cheers me up. I’m a tidal load of strangers loaded
with strangers – orgasm flakes the zeppelin would
easily trade for the laser cab mistletoe.

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