Tattle:

You tattled, sputtering slimed supposes over fields of glimmering dimes.

Sunk in sky, and slurps--yes, sponging upon the girth of their slim peels of dermis—droves and droves of waning ‘slice-colors’—those ‘almost taste colors’, those ‘wreaking grease colors’.

No matter where my fingers strolled, leaves of honey-tissue, stuck wrapped upon my digits.

So sputter, tattle; and I will hide in the fields of rinds, and ice dipped dimes.

FellowMan