Hope-buds nipped by keen-edged breaths sniffing out warmth
And dishing forth stiff leftovers dragged across your porcelain platter,
Dragged by the tresses, by tresses cold-congealed;
The tresses, now a mirthless smog lapped up by broom bristles:
Love-less\ Lust-less marriages all,
Rehearsing virgin kisses on apples plump while teeth-gnashing choppers even out wrinkles on wholesome love seats.
So…
A grin-plastered battle face awaits foetal-like,
Awaiting within copy machine bowels ink-flushed,
Awaiting maniacal replication-
When You shall be I,
And I the Almighty,
And Us, thus reveling in illusory proximity…
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