Poem #7

Lippish luscious lumbar region
Coax past slide tongues
that tongue, yes, this is the one,
I left off, helpless, in the humidor,
turning rations into plenty, plenty,
it never stops, it never ends, the goosedown
power of these pillows, the press and press
and warm, sun splits the scene in half,
it helps, it heats the drowsy fortunes with a slap
it jacks you right back up, that charm, that charm,
its liquid core suffuses, we want more,
And we can have it, we can return to turn
& turn, the widening gyre, the drunken down drawn
falcon, you toss, toss, bigamy, that's big of me, why
do you always act so superior? Where do you get off?
and what's that in Fahrenheit, don't move,
Local time is eight-oh-five.