Señor Somebody Ben Norton
A furcated tongue of desire, the double-sword of lust,
Synonyms, it turns out, are ubiquitous.
Handless, I brace myself, for the whole-hearted shiatsu of justice,
M–e Miss — ter (ed) (h)
Desire Desire De-sire !
Mmmm ! I can taste the sweet air now, Those inner loins; that bosom of lust;
¡the power of mAN compels you!
“Do, what I say.” Not, what I do, “Dooo…” As She whispers softly, murmurs tenderly, Her marshmallow appendages, honey-glazed bliss, soaked, drowned, in beads of glistening craving, solidified yearning, caramelized dew… one million unslept nights… and He licks the syrupy blood off of her mocha fingers— those puerile things; so desirable, so sweet—saccharine paradise, dark olive swirls, a desert of enigma, a perpetual dessert of eddying brooks, satiated with lascivious frogs, debased amphibians—our own heretic forbearers. “Pray to your progenitors.” “Worship them!” “Filial Piety.” FILIAL PIETY! “Pray!”
“Prey!” “Ohhh…” “Uhhh…” *Blush* *Wink* Heaven in a bottle. As, the innocent man, forgets to tie his own _____
“Shoo!” — “Yes sir, I will sit; comport (my)self…