Swivel at the Hips

The final path the epicenter the camouflage the Bing

The rumpus

I cannot recall I never will fall in love with you a fifth Time


These glands this foot these ears I trust might linger and Forget

Keep guessing

My panic finds fissures in the sidewalk must we now go Hunting

Pick pockets

She knows she bowls she accepts exceptions to every Tool

Buttress (too easy Mister)

In hand on the lamb embedded balls landmine Monkeyshine

Lips lips lips AND lips

This will can only be purely mistakenly rigorous Demanding

Ginger snaps


The token adult thinks twice before clearing his throat and pointing out the clever little flowers on the fireplace mantel (if only). This is really too rich and detailed in fundamental  wait…

The token adult thinks a third time and then growls from his gut in a manner only the best disappointments recommend. He’s forgotten his place until the street reminds him of pomegranate poems and the god he named miscellaneous when he believed in gods.

The token adult walks home.

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