lapel of the night
gives rows of tweed signatures to intergalactic scarf of green
trustworthy gas
slippery ears
hungry ears
the flag of some crunchy phone flower
2,000 f(l)eet long
grisky petitjack down the raspberry snow
ocean eyes
my dear glasses made of cotton are
your smile glaze
your nauru-based hammock for pocket stars
for the taste of the air that does everything by doing nothing
nothing but blue bananas
covering our hungry ears
a galaxy of towels and wet tortillas
auroras are your earrings
and my words are chickpeacock-feathered
ambrosia
to be delivered in 24h
aubergine door of desire
but truth has its own crops
on the glaciers of someone's teeth
mine yours who knows except the chameleon
who is x% likely to adapt to our
wisenut cherryburger shimmering colour
(to be served with stars made of ice cream)