Wednesday, 13 July 2011

The yarning of good whum

When I grab your body in my eye sockets, in my mind I french my fallals until my groobs burst.

I'd like to lish all over your gizzles, dangle you good and proper. We'd waltz a smooshing croon-song and mouth-slide each other heavenward. Upstairs to beddies, light down, trousers akim.

And when you spade me, we get cremmy and good like best Cornwall butter, our foil wrappers pelt open, my insides over your insides, all yummy and spanked.

I imagine us leeling on a toad petal, me sweaty and gubbled, you all spoony and whistfallen. We'd talk the day into a blue funnel and then touch again, temples abommed with yarning.

Yet all I can do is pupil you, for I am farthen and you are unclose. Unrequite. Groobles unfunked.

One day, we will tree.


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