Whoa.

bright as the son.

 

shiny as a gun

 

sweet as a cinnamon bun

 

oh you got that right, hun

 

Eyes slinking skyward in the melanin of her evening rush

Monkeys dangling clockwise in infestations of clitoral confetti

 

Love your sutra, bro!!

 

War pity in carcerations of...

Intese longing of bread and wine hovering over the putrid handkerchief of starving masses

 

You are quite the poet, keep it up, I am loving your words.

 

Robotic work hours

And the sinous brain in serpentine madness

Wishing for what was and will be

But wishing not for what is

 

Gooey and melting organs

The thin man REALIZED I age I age

I die I die

And wished for the last orgasm

The last nothingness

 

I like this a lot!
You busted out your poet out of nowhere!

 

Then he saw the circle and the line

And that which is not the circle nor the line

He'd be content if the clock ran backwards

If 6 was a 9