I have a lover who runs
away f r. O m my own
the ink bled so she runs
my reposed prose dead
but her. A quick feet contains
the voice I have somewhere
in my cellar brain attic heart
I touched her skirt tonight
to morrow I feel her breast
and rip out her letter-mind
I shall eat her until she cums
(Comes) inside my factory wordsmith
–> heart
:: 07-03-2014 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 