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The waist of black linen longstockings pulled
thigh high over plump ribs clutching like ash,
girly cigarette, her cheeks, all ash-wooled
agleam, behind her chin and her length slash
kinky thatch. Hash and kisses with the big
bighty heels of clunky-clunky wooden
klompen. All her cogwheels, flicking in wig.
Splaying her rainbow under silk shaven
thatch. Lean in for a close look. “I’m the stuff
that blurs lines,” mouths latched, “all fad and fumble.”
Her wide grin peeked from between thighs. A puff,
a drag, you arrive in her mouth: sweet, dull.
Her tongue crazy bong-water, S-bending
knees, sucking hash ash, getting everything.
