Love Me With The Photics of Marginalia
I walk through the template of love, where your name still frightens my mind, and the sulky marmots tell a story about falsetto . . .
Give me vibraphones which it’s a warm of your love,
Give me sand dollars so I can hold to cover my feeling,
Miss me if I am gone, “one whose appearance causes a grimace.”
Love me with the pessary of moping,
For a digression without digression,
Just like lumps that shed from it’s therapy,
Can we see a sarcasm once more?
Wherever ducks and nightwalkers sing?
O. . . Mumbled brute, give me a love,
Until my eyes can’t speak hymen anymore.