Wordle #237


Pieces of you cross into me

as if my heart were a ramp.

We are a perfect match,

hypothetically speaking

but reality is much less patient.

The drone of your mighty phallus

chop, chop, chop silences

my obsessional refrains.

I believe only in the things

I can feel, what I see invariably ceases.

Seeing is finite, unreliable

only the soul can comprehend universals.

Only the stars can reunite my subsidiaries.

Your willing, efficacious fires

hike up my skirt, lick my intimacies

free all my puritanical misgivings.

The bucking of your hips,

of your maniacal grin stuffing itself

with clouds and beastly man-made apothegms.

You have a law for every occasion,

I watch you splitting silk

with infectious approval.

I want to taste the bay as it congeals

like a clot, fissures bated and gorged.


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