Won't Wish for a Block Patty

Lose the buff lady pants and then we will talk. Drop that huffy huff persona if u want to be my perfect friend. I can see ur smashed up soul gas inside ur skull pockets and I actually do like what it looks like but unless u stop behaving like a little bit of a weird worm I don't even think I'll bother doing the thing I wanna do.

I would take a big pump and suck the soul gas from ur bony globe and huff it into my lungs to feel the prickly purchase of ur ghost mouth inside me. U can't probably figure out how to escape my organs.

Tilt Away From the Blade

Yoga legs stacked too tall wobble and hum across from the municipal complex. Threatened, strawberry jam guys lope in the new medieval fashion. Potential coital participants color themselves duly impressed.

A flat gray guy from Boise grips tight the loosely baroque garments his charming papa brought back from a land full of spirit orbs. Stripped and sandblasted bone leg men smear squished lipstick on their lovely bods until they are allowed to do the City Squid Dance. 

A disaster inside the municipal complex interrupts the good times and behind their masks the goofy guys trickle.

Cure Your Garments

As soon as father dies, we will gather with the rest of our seven siblings to perform a song he wrote. None of us has the complete musical notation, only fragments sealed in coded cylinders held as pendants on our chests. 

The lyrics will be conveyed during the reading of the last will and testament. The lawyer, a kind-eyed woman of Portuguese descent with a taste for leather and gleaming hubcaps, will mostly not cry during the affair. The throbby luminance of a bleeding plastic gum steak will finally meet us, eye to eye and reeking of hubris. 

The Backwards Nozzle

Guilty of craven acts of servile leisure, I reduce myself to a sickly cream. A bruise on my hot curvy ass reminds me of a cranky lover. And a swirling cursive name on one of my juicy natural titties reminds me of the kindness of kinfolk.

I find myself a new name. Now something in me trembles. I am literally foam. 

Six Hissy Fits Before the Soap Release

Gush and fume in a drawer. 

Hunt for a few bronze wafers in a long silent romance. 

When the charred hair whispers, slip away from your relations and teach yourself fake spells from a self-published fantasy novel. 

Then soak your own brain in ostrich egg albumen and watch your black eyelids flutter to the carerra marble countertop in this contemporary kitchen.

Clustered Dashboards

Striped papers indicate a habitual grip on actual pathogens. Stinking oily banisters indicate a cessation of fabric mergers. Everything else is quite simply, prismatic metallurgy.

Free and twitching, my inheritance is slipping between some other guys lips.

Mesh Prep Liquors

Ochre fingers ask what the humming dials of the garment containment unit indicate. Their peculiarities hold us rapt.

Plucked like dripping cuffs of blossom tops or unintended corduroy spikes, the therapist, his spouse, and their lusty interlocutor surround themselves and each other with loose fumes.

Loose fumes asking for words and words evaporating in the miniature cavity. Not stopping anytime soon, I'm afraid.