Oil and Feces

I drank My poem.
I witch tit inside my honking daze;

Nothing calls me a bunk open.

I die when my roses softly keel under the soft poshy clutch of eggs
Bombing cancer with my wasted black shaft.

No one bothers my crying.

I stealthily call you a bomb.

I steelishly climb your bub.

To whom do I call when night pauses and I am a lack of patience for
You
(my Goddess).

I cannot die if there is no test and it is potlove I feel between my flashing combteeth.

No one is above yikes dandy bars stinking thoughts with blue pinchsers.

Far away a western tomcat sinks his wincing plateau around the signature church wish
For Slavery and chaos.


I flog a blond presence with a god of mortars.