Love lip trippingingly swan dive to
secondary motions in chandelier skin
—I think of Marxism as a sexist joke on myself—
“Scrumpdillyishus!” quoth she chucking down my wrinkled sack
to the delicious toad drippings of her snack,
T-shirts stuffed with scribbles in black.
Isaac the Cossack is the buff chick about town;
“Nice bag of marbles, Bobby,” he promised, withdrawing the baguette.
“Nick, Nick, my Pincers of Bagwan,” stealthily—
Hey-wann-ah, hey-wann-ah ho,
you’re the waxpaper Santa of my wandering toes.
Alert the pirates, my desk is round