Sleep

Another roll-over-in-bed poem A nose blow and a wide yawn separates a lubricated **** scene from a gravelly scripture. In that gap, the harlot’s far from the screen. My blade’s lacquer reveals the blood of my nightmares. Evasive mirrors hide the sum of my white hairs. The mucus of the acetic isn’t enough to stir up lust for a ghost, so I scroll for a post that soothes me the most. When they let me in the garden, I don’t bite the apple; the yoni is worshipful. It’s buried in the pit, and excavated in the chambers. It is massaged. It is kissed. It is suckled. I return to sleep.