Wordle #91

Week 91

Even your entropy is rigid,

the lymph gurgling behind

your prostrated smile,

the admonishing aftertaste

of your subcutaneous adhesions.

Skinflint, star-caster, striptease

my thighs pulsate beneath

your extraneous gravity and what a let down,

what a climax, what a keepsake it all is.

The tobacco churning behind your lip,

turmeric-spiced silt sticking in your nail beds,

the subtle admonishment of your filaments

breaking me like a riding saddle.

How vile, how terrible, how irrefutable you are.

Must you control everything?

Must you crush the throats that sing?

Must I, the shameless, the purse-string, the mule-headed thief

love you, contend with you, worship the soles

of your endless retreats?

managed to barely get one in