Spirally Arranged, Mostly Broad, And Heart-Shaped
The blossoming flames had ambled our way while we were busy not looking. I made bales of floss in moonlight and was nosy about films. The gloom of smog had mollified my fear of something balmy. No one ever came to my mambo recitals. I loafed on bosoms and bared my fangs but it was useless. Bosoms lamed me. I tried to able myself, cycled at the gym. But there was the trap of flan, and molly, and my infamous bong. Foamy globs limned the sink when I changed brands of mouthwash. I searched them for malign symbols. They weren't quite lies, they were manly fibs, I boomed, aloud, alone, as I slammed a fist on my bongos. Its echo louder than I thought. The larder was no better. Oblong yams and squash blossoms and hardly any protein. The fucking yams. I flung one through a window once to prove a point to the neighbors. In short, I said to the hole in the window, I’ve had so many lives it freaks me out.