July 26, 2016
My baby is swimming with the foxes. Her glue is off the charts, sticking to the ufos in my mouth. I have an appetite for her sightseeing on the global market hunting for alien love. I got her alien fingers playing a melody that will never stop. The flesh connives its undertones to meet her counterpoints. I dive to the fox mind she coughed up, and the abstractions she sings with every horn up in blaze of atonal bliss, it's her foxes, no other way around that hunting ground with my lady straddling the best of hurricanes and nuclear smooches.