More Than Nasty-More Like Foolish
I love this nasty game of a combination of
leisure and life where the trouble maker becomes the victim
and the product of that crafty pencil of our imaginations
is translated into a true life story told by the welcomes
of roses, gloriosas and saffron crocuses.
silk so tight on a flesh so mild
can sexualize a nearby stone
and with the first half of your luscious castle,
the throne definitely stays beneath its delicate walls,
strongly preserved for the exotic union of my everlasting presence.
The hips’ salvation matches your lips temptation
thereby constructing a pix exaggeration
to inflict a fixed subordination on me,
making it count at six erections already
as I’m lost in a mixed contemplation.
Oceans gushing out of the sun and trees standing on the clouds
are perfections of a world only known by the census of two.
Our citizenry well enforced by this mighty affection
and bodies well protected
by the magnitude of such penetrating jealousy
strongly fighting against any threat of liquefying its refined honey
and adulterating its rare tasty wine
put the art of intimate knowledge into re-evaluation
and the strength of the art of sex
very close to the question mark of moral bliss.
Such wealthy lavishness with all positive alteration
to any kind of belonging is evidenced
by my accepted foolishness so honourable.
Words alone are unworthy because the probability
of using all existing letters is not sufficient enough
to mold a brick out of a thousand many
in building my bridge to your heart.
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