Molybdenum
Rejoice, nude tongue, my dumbstruck nipples hang by one contagious hinge by the dirty-blond seashore, my one-millimeter bone delirious with bruises, my cockshut ribs all virgin slime, sledgehammer fuses, ashen, askew, cataracting all the fusion you undid on top of the scalp of midnight, flash of the periscope's marrow, synthetic carcass, dry, brassy, heartless confusion of entrails and doom, the dark-vowelled trigger of the rainbow's sexless sap, giddily studding the foreskin of light under the petals of the moon, impenetrably thwarting the slithering stenciled steel gray beams of unprepossessing ignominiousness -- dishevelled urchin inhaling the musky odor of civet. I unsuck the flint in the lineaments of nightbreak whinnying the spiral of abscesses, unmortal anticlimax. The heartbone of the pasture is magnetized by the manure of flailed stars. Leaping manna, thirsty womb, the endless fibs of zero dumbly tumbling down the headless wooden silence, the metallic elements of love uneating the coils of my prayerwheel. The bust is pneumatically callous. Stultify me with inflectional spots of maladjusted redness. The scheme is chancy. Shrift, my ass. The rage is insolvent in all actuality. Loosely scratch whispering wails on a scroll. The cathode paddle of joy is inclusively unfeigned. Who scavenged the refractingly spooky twang? Who is nibbling on the nipples of the coral hourglass? Unlace the phallus stuffed with yttrium. The nib of it is not lisping like the tilted arc of the hymen, unlike the unmortal weathercock on the steeplejack's polestar spire. Unsex the henna octagon, corkscrews chiming, enamel pincers, ferrule cockring widdershins, halo around the undead chrysalis' bald nipples' milky sheath, fairies windily stung paler, tipsy thorn, mimosa bodice, sulphur axle, mummy pigments in the ninnies' boneyards, icicle shrouds unwrinkling the heartbreak tits of nowheres, timeless antipodes aghast, erected Saviour, splints and hangnails, slashed and hacked, fog of meat, spongy gristle, nitric suncock squealing, damp-grooved, razed deaf to the stem cells inside the scythe of death quietly outraged in the cupboard, dead icicle weeds of the alphabet weeping. Never, not ever. Repugnant or airtight, you had never been thickening there before, fawning over my parti-colored casters. The floppiest truckles. Now scram. I am vitrified, I am a clinker, a flipper and a flapper, a flop, a flattened appendage, a glinting tocsin adze amid squishier widgets. --Bob BrueckL
