What he’s really sticking in
I was a slice of hot red velvet cake zippered into
a malformed morph. He knew he wanted a bite or two;
he pretended he wanted to heal my wounds; rise me up
inside his oven; bake a hole platter of new drips of
desirous frosting into my ears; his candy coating stuck
himself deep into me. He turned me on entangled, then suddenly
dropped me; pulled himself out and backed far away into
a different state, to create another soufflé; dive right in
to another new craving; convince her she’s the greatest
since sliced red velvet sunk into gray. He lobs nocturnal
emissions all over her bed. Seeking out the cake tray; gleaming
bright with new desire; scheming to ream it with his honey
bun cooking skills. His tongue sounds
like a one-of-a-kind spoon at first then
a suckling spork then a shudder pump that rams and twists
away. Another semi-hollow cake hole wishing to be baked anew
will become his latest fake temporal bone. Then just like that, a pinch
hit from sweet wet dream into ripped seam left to drip dry by itself
and so on and sew on; turn it on & lob it in & sew it shut;
sew her out of his head; save his kinky needles
and threads for the next bobbin cruller. He wants,
he wants, but he doesn’t want you. He wants multiple serving
trays of fem food porn all over him. A whole line up of body form
desserts, held on top, held down, underneath, unfolded,
un-held, then on hold until they give up again.
Once he leaves their bodies, he doesn’t care too much
about their brains mottled menageries. (Sss)platter.
I was a slice of hot red velvet cake zippered into
a malformed morph. He knew he wanted a bite or two;
he pretended he wanted to heal my wounds; rise me up
inside his oven; bake a hole platter of new drips of
desirous frosting into my ears; his candy coating stuck
himself deep into me. He turned me on entangled, then suddenly
dropped me; pulled himself out and backed far away into
a different state, to create another soufflé; dive right in
to another new craving; convince her she’s the greatest
since sliced red velvet sunk into gray. He lobs nocturnal
emissions all over her bed. Seeking out the cake tray; gleaming
bright with new desire; scheming to ream it with his honey
bun cooking skills. His tongue sounds
like a one-of-a-kind spoon at first then
a suckling spork then a shudder pump that rams and twists
away. Another semi-hollow cake hole wishing to be baked anew
will become his latest fake temporal bone. Then just like that, a pinch
hit from sweet wet dream into ripped seam left to drip dry by itself
and so on and sew on; turn it on & lob it in & sew it shut;
sew her out of his head; save his kinky needles
and threads for the next bobbin cruller. He wants,
he wants, but he doesn’t want you. He wants multiple serving
trays of fem food porn all over him. A whole line up of body form
desserts, held on top, held down, underneath, unfolded,
un-held, then on hold until they give up again.
Once he leaves their bodies, he doesn’t care too much
about their brains mottled menageries. (Sss)platter.
