underneath the raw flesh
of strawberries
she, lynx, licks
the black bile of the lobe
with tickled
convulsion.
like pins, like stings of mosquitos
whispering in the crescendo wail
of a loon coo.
He, Cheshire smiles,
his phallic memories of
anemones
lying on…glass sheets,
stain’d from harden turds
of bellied meat
his eyes,
licks the tongues
of the light fleshed succubi,
as she opens wider for his love’s
vomitation
of Shakespearean prose
