I am embodying the next
verpa bohemica before my neurons
can acknowledge satisfaction
I am full stop for the wrinkled
growth before the real
bonanza comes
I have a diabolical lip
moistener I could distribute more
evenly I have extended my invitation
into the metallurgic future
I am fully contained in this
premature briar
when I am
telepathically crooning
I still break out
in somatic bruises
when I grieve loose
fur is more likely
to cling when
I am lonely the understory
doesn’t give a fuck
if anything emphasizes
its dutchman’s breeches
when I am delicious in
some skin or other
it doesn’t matter
no one is calling back