Col[our] whirled

 

Colour

my whirled, please …

 

… I mean, I can carry on

if you wish for me to

carry on as you seem to

de-

sire me to carry

on and on, but I’d far rather we

carried on like a

house of cards on fire:

collapsing in on ourselves in

passion-

ate embrace of bitten punctures and

punctured bites that sight your

sex along the ridges of the

mountains and hollows and dens

of considerable exc-

use and abuse.

 

Don’t abuse me as you choose

to do right now, but

use me for an end where pleasure

[pleas(e)-

{(s)ing]s out} fabulously loud and

martyr-like in the power

of its unabashed de-

livery, regal and grand in all respects

except inasmuch as the

sex we celeb-

rate remains between us two

fo(u)r

ever.

 

So colour our whirled, can

you?  Colour our

whirled like twizzled sticks

of rocky sweet-ridden moments of

purely investigated

moments of madness, entirely

goodness; entirely

wouldness.

 

And all I need is a word from you,

and everything shall fall

away from me, and nothing shall

remain for me to

do but love you

two

fo(u)r

ever.

 

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