I do not think that I shall ever be rid of you.
you are the new taint of my skin---
you have become my skin, my
flammable raincoat, a set
of rubber hubcaps for my
fish eyes.

As such,
is it any small wonder
that I cannot think without
music, without the bells of Tuesday,
(the music of Sunday) singing frailly
through my arms?

"Oracular, isn't it
fundamentally awing
to tickle the tubes
of my most lambent darling?"
the rhyme was a schism
a nitric coalition

-

You shut me out
Of your powder box.

-

I do not think I shall
Ever finish this One.