Hun 1, 2016


Your compass swings over to him who gets his tickles from the upper species cooing him Papa. Print what you will to what price on what polaroid, but it remains the one thumb on a lake of indexes without nails. You’ve got to sick him. Boy out on a sniff for that chance, maybe the Venetian dilating into a door and you, there, smart casual in a tableau. Where fine, his gut becomes you. Rather a vacay to that republic yea where “emulate” smacks like glycerin and so, smooth awardee: pucker up! None of you a betrayal of the kid at the outset, shadowed by the ply of the stage. At every turn a paraphrase of my, you’re meant for the stars, aren’t you? Still he strides your way, producing a cute pun from his clothing allowance. The curling tin of your laughter.

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