Without consequence or restraint,
we tint the bars that cross the line of hate.
Mad hatter to the left, eyeing the fountain of youth to the right...
what makes a marriage work is holding your own
at crayon fights.
Splendid runabouts in bathtubs,
nude and laughing, sweat rolls down our backs.
Recline into me
my languid butterfly ship.
Let us set sail into the biohazard sex machine trips.