this tongue is a believer
a pink wet knight sending secret messages with sewn-up kisses
all the way down to the heart
even the black skeleton of that dried-up frog you found on the path, summer’s ago, will rise and make love again
i wish to push my fingers down the throats of all who pass me by
there is no polite way
to ask to see your insides
only skin
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Something has certainly begun. Personal depths of old and a curious imagination for the unshaped, moves in me like guests at a polite party. The sound of the clothes flapping silently in the room, the flickering of lights and the noise – and something is here, presenting itself to me.…
May women who cut people heads off who live freely whose fingers are stinky who wipe on their dresses their bloody nails be cursed Ambre.