I Made a Warm Room with Yours; There Are Drinks for But Me; You’re a Host with a Bucking So Well
-for my favorite-
To kiss her zephyrs each morn! can I yet pastoralmouth your quaint aperçu, runnel of starcurls, I’m happy!, Cunnilingus pretty with linnets linking clew aride their steam. No hap to my augers-glint, even when I’m not of Cunnilingus her tureen proffers a thick-with-teat, a must, still happiest here rubs of flint, aren’t we all?! don’t we wake to slept raimented a holy tint, tucked lips dangling dust?! Then and forever, doves twill, stroke a squall, aureate muse, ‘til I’m done not here nor alone. Among. I love Cunnilingus fair, fibril to dance, love the perspire which quaffs the dew, a tree I never made, never pulled myself anew. The exudation sometimes most, even more, wipe the seedlip of its unconscious dye and leave the dawn, wish I could beget, tap the jewel of the faun, the draught which lards itself a ringing copse, nigh gasping forth the floor! The taste I’ll listen, lasts when supine I cry—Cunnilingus near!—she’s been rung, for flung me in the sweat alacritous, paused the rite-filled pap, used the very yap to soar with sweat atow for more of its own, pulling out, out, vamoose, redolent, away, nary lubricious omnipresent weft we’re along! Look! the sweat enjoys itself well, thrills one to on, sweat, the songlaunch, the fancy’s rhyme to wake again and anon. Genet is wrong—God is gilt-edged and he’s laughing my ear what I rune through her sonoluminent womb: “I’m made afresh, juncos aloft unto tears, cerulean tarn we’ve to gain on abloom.” Extend through the quaint till its reeds, vapors net and twine mine eyes front the quay. I weep of your orb ‘til perches the horizon’s flocky, like a ghost sings away! Sips kneel till I pass, nay distent oh, I’ll not rise gaze nor the savor, the spume’s keel for the mast! Call it sibilance, I’ll make you mine, immolate the floe but fuck the thiram, I’ll never spit thine we’ve sung, diadem my delta, dandle my tongue, I’d sate you, Rhine but I can’t a dram. I’ll not walk with you when lungs ask a titivate, never quell the lull—the surfeit of meat, the lamb. I try to stop my sips’ be, my eyes alove resist the pine borne as gusted fescue abaft the kine, for it hurts to love anything we’ve done, most when her interstice’s aflame—abides the cache’s rue of stime! I want to rise my stead to make the world know—love abounds!—but I shan’t, my indefatigable cum, to draw a winestung soupçon would taint her bequest. This ungrateful spit—rest, rest!—twould ruin my sewn, for God! your Goddess is here, a succor my visage, there’s no Humbert!, wherefore his moan?! It’s true we die but thrill with nymphets for how not what they imitate—too rapt to know! Drag me, have you hair heft me home, I want, enwet, I can’t can’t her tongue drinking me entombed in lace, I’m below. Mine! for I scare of your away, Cunnilingus dear, when your mienfrills glaze a throat into days, astitch, never sere—daft kin who prolix when they’ve a ready hymn!