These callipygian longings.
Not to have seen you naked =
the greatest injustice known
to man! But don’t assume
that I am writing about
you.
Stunned daffy energy
morphosing on the lipid
pleasure of revolution
in tartan tights. I love
it when men tell me what
to do I love the timid crust
of need on the surface
of false order. There.
You have your orders.
Go.
Life beribboning
itself with more
and more and more life:
then twisting into its
same old spiral.
In semicostume as always
prying the sticky lens
from the bioglobe.
Opinionated. Injured.
All the little…
comptrollers…
Otohime 