CAN I PAINT YOUR TANTRA WITH MY FINGERS?

Shocked against skylines running in rampage and in reckless gay abandon, but never going out.

I just feel so, well, you know, behaved, nicely, neat, placed and proper sitting quietly pinked and not thinking about chain smoke.

Clap! Clap! Did you just see that strobe-light, too, within the intervals of our blink?

Rub. Glistened and furious warmth imagined up to the moments of a daydream starkly pulled into the feel of generic nakedness.

“Why don’t you just!” Place me in your midst, held aloft, dancing so exposed, using fluorescents in body paint and glow sticks tracing our lifelines.

I like your ephemeral substance, really close to mine, clasped and politely sweating with palms tight, and forever not daring to disturb this new young love.