Some are doggy-dogs in
leather collarsand fat anal beads, shaggy
tails sproutingat the end. Some dabble in
spittle, spurs,flirtation and the crop.
“By the prickingof my thumbs/ something
wicked this way comes.”Some love convulsions that
come with their vice.Unpredictable bad love.
Some love drumsin jazz never hitting the
same note twice —my hand on your ass
«thrash»
— Like Mingus’maxim, “awesomely
simple.” It’s like this:all this ends in ire.
You’re blessed with good sex,money and time. I’m drunk,
rank and gorgeous.Pull up your bloomers. Go
home. You’ll find your blisswith some other sod — a
god dour, complex.
ire
09 Thursday Nov 2017
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