Make me your little joke,
and insult me.
Insult me to the content of your mind.
Rock me on the edge of
your middle finger;
whip me with the lines of your palm,
and when your tyrannous will
is done, wean me off on
to your to...
At the end here’s subtractive serendipity, the morning stars dissolve like fading perfume
splashes in your yawn, down the icicle of your atma. What makes our togetherness
monochromatic of antiquity? Come let’s smell the frankincense of this pregna...