Play with me, the bass for me, for I am running through a haunted forest as my blouse terrorizes what is left of the fragmenting orange leaves; yes, and let Fire smile as the chestnut falls.
Chameleons know misery because a mother's nipples are always in tunes of wavering nourishment: white clouds above the sea of ferns, rainbowing nature between black-out shocks; puncture a minnow if you grow off course: there are bullets in my cheeks.
Teenagers were in heat when New York City streets uncoiled themselves from around the subway lungs to proposition a pauper hovering with candles to dream Locked Locket.
We soldier on, playing goofy games and promising our hiccups will bloom sometimes into nourishing meals for an unseen alien species (speckled at the curb).
Spaceflight spacefights were deflecting dotted curves up along the course as the alligator drew real red meat from The Exhausting Thirst Quencher.
If dreams were rivers, could we collect reflected mountains and swim with small planes beneath the frog bubbles?
