[for alp]

when all the children lie their heads down on their mother's breasts,
our daughter—a poinsettia potted in winter's heavenly glow—
shall have the deepest slumber: her plump face will trace the curves
of my love's pale breasts, milk streaming though which keeps my daughter full
with earthly spoils. she will purse her lips, thin and sickly, upon the rose pedal
upon which sticky nectar flows—her gums gnashing, gnawing,
taking in the softness through their moist smacking.
her caramel cheeks push against the whiteness of my love—
blending their tones to make a honey that my tongue
cannot deny nor disgrace: i wish to tear them to grab them with my teeth
and let my mouth linger on the softest forehead and the most darling breast--
i hunger only for slick untainted flesh—a dichotomy of sweetness.

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