jokes that i have become to her are contained here.
when the dawn came she took off
her gauzy white robe
positioning herself in the sun,
on the expanse,
behind two sturdy wheels (assuming a smooth ride)
but i was the crooked spoke adjacent.
this pinion gear (she built the hardware)
is the wheel of our circumstance and
she will not have it.
one, maybe two times i gobbled up bone-thin goodness,
obvious fleshy cheeks behind a turned back
and what was it to us but a fork in the road
albeit a wrong turn,
as it was so clear that i had rolled far
far ahead of myself.
is their room for function in form anymore?
we must dwell on the past for composition
easy for her to say, yet there was something
compelling in the wrong
of her right of way.
so was that really me in the days
she cites, in verbose speech she makes
from faraway places
i will never go.
beats her mind caught
just to catch.
adding growth and pressure to
her swollen brain which heavily rests on my hand
pacing on rainstreaked streets in time to
the excitement
bending through space
contained in her fluids,
creating excrement for my senses.
recalling hips under her slender fingertips
that shake like string on an instrument
only she knew how to play.
recall the crooked spoke
not meant to travel.
but the round faces i touch can turn
eyes to me for every uninhibited emotion.
and for the emerging energy
the most satisfying ride there will be,
will be.
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