we hand paint flamenco, flamingos

safe like nipple rods

the trees their red feelings

not how beau full

but what they give kissing or dicing shells in the sea

.

semiotics for the last

lancing snow

snail blade rib blow     the last

.

I run my hands along brunch

echinacea on the roof the smell of christmas bones

to your hip leather my tachycardia seems to me to be a lollipop these days

lobe

pelvis

salt

.

you control the strand codec blue of speech

orgy  fibers

knowing nerve to nerve cunt color shorts

breath to keep up with tangled sevens

.

triangles to blot the taste

melon round time

.

your talon woven tarragon solves pomegranates

turns orchid     petal   hash

to snow that gets my fuck life and warms sweet bitch rain into some soon ones

.

I write seventeen

delectable

songs like apricots

just lame apricots writing sex interviews on a saturday night

.