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Draw up your legs, gypsy girl. Throw me down.
Give me the hairy eyeball. Witchy-weird
thrashed flaxen. Red freaked hair flew in the wind.
We scythe her hackled, reaped curly-down thatch.
Delight had gone wraithen. Within her snatch
worlds formed, thundered smack surf. Her hair unpinned
biting lip, strung out in heaven’s high, smeared
under Mother Hubbard’s mud-stained nightgown.
My mother said — Bukkake — to get things
done – no! My mother said that I never
should play with gypsies in the wood. Fog clings
to her thighs. Cum and flotsam. My mother
said cum and flotsam — said cum and flotsam —
said cum — my mother said flotsam — and cum.
