CLUMP HONEY BUNCH IT
written in spurts alternating with dancing 1.4.05

Fallacy prompt compatriot - ouch! in from under, horrendous automobile.

Clump honey bunch it. Ogle.
Expert rendition. Luck mini-omnibus struggle-bite.

That's loose, isn't it, the fly-catcher's honeymoon, caught in sperm & spit. Suck the living death, shit of moth & haunch of lamb, left to embroil its own progeny, soft & lucid as this torpid night, endless in its lucky agony, stipulated but left without a proper ending.

It's soaking all night, maybe the blood will wash out. Who knew it was 15 miles from Treblinka, from the wagon trail, from the last laughter on the cold cycle of the lake.

One big boat drifting lazily down river, vague on the memories. Strangulation ensues readily.

Fat city coated with oily hue, hug me now you luscious babe, huge & dripping your newness in octaves. Five years later - oh, don't ask. That crook in your shoulders grown to cloak a lion's roar with its nubby dentures & outright audacity. It's cabinet fever, ain't it, all hollow & leggy & wanting to bust out of its ontogeny.




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