My glove she weeps like pirates, without ice-cream or pilates
sudden spray she's hateful, but she's blue like ice-filled choirs
flatulence made of cobwebs,
graveyards enjoy one another,
my garden-rake won't shudder, my pinto or my
steel-soft brother
in the dance of lance-edification, people undulate in certain parts of Birmingham
my shove prates, she's not a spoon-slide phoney
(or a celly, when I can't
smell her)
stair nose
un-glue orchid-aim
fingers in peanut sauce stutter
tinted deciduous arrow flutters
my smothered angle dangles, from your yes...... like a spring or a grail


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