The silver slits ten thousand years Of sun-soaked sod To fuel the fires of Ireland. Her sons, now warm, will tell the tale Of ancients weaned on bog and field. The golden lines etched clear through time
First, it was the business, temperatures, string-pull switches, fingers drizzled in an upturned ta-ta. My own smell shivers before absolution. Then comes you injecting the box's drone with twinkles.
I watch for changes in reflected skin under the lamplight. What thoughts consume the foetal mind, if not of teat, then what kind of thrill can your tiny brain perceive? Not another move until my
I leaned on the balcony over Plaza Catalunya. People could see. You didn't care, bearing around my naked frame. The cold metal shocked my skin, took...
Open it gently. The top one, at least. Blow back then smooth the nape, ripple tingles where the dressing is light, easy to tear, but bear it for now...