My sexcrime, speak! How plusful longer must
I unproceed in unlight anteholding
your doubleplusgood breasts repeatwise? Dust
has growed onface inwrinkles postenfolding
you lastwise. Dust, I think, is endwise what
we are when thinkpol catch us: vapourised
to unpersons who unlive, we unplot
our thoughtcrime underland where sexcrime dies.
But antethen, with rocketbombwise fire,
let’s bulletspeedwise run to crimeful lips
and throw the knifing goodthink chains unhigher
than ratholes in the floors of downing ships.
True Sexcrime unproceeds and unproceeds,
but inwise, bellyfeelful wanting breeds.
