Tuesday, September 22, 2009

By An Early Eight O'Clock Weekend Breakfast While My Pooped Out Wife Sleeps, Disturbed Only By An 8-Year-Old Daughter's Frenzied Waking Scream

Scintillating consonance is here for you, my love.
As are butter on toast, pink pomelo juice, coffee trio.
I have not bathed yet in the amber of your chamber, love.
Nor have I yet found you. Nor the dryers. Nor the zoo.

Have you heard her enter the door, the floor creaking?
You will smell no semen, won't be sore or cry for heaven.
Scintillating assonance, my love, is there for thee.
And me, certainly excluding me in the picture. Allure

was the name of the game that I played onwards, not
a lame dissonant perturbance encumbered by crustaceans.
I have not bathed yet for the danger of your daughter, love,
I'll only be looking for you. Not the dryers. But the zoo.

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