The mealy texture
of the sun-
shine blankets everything:
fogged, webbed.
every-which-way, everywhere
holds my hand, my eyelids,
my tongue.
tickle the wind
and slit through skin
to my carpals.
ed white-hot whales,
sand dance with hella
fine hotties, filthy flacas.
1 comment:
Hi ya, i like this. it very descriptive. and im thinkin of wat to do 4 the con artist thingy. (i dont no wat e did i'll have to tink--lol i get to daydream!)
bye
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