The sisters of Catherine the Great
ask that you cover yourself with lightbulb filaments
and take pains to make yourself fully incandescent this evening.
You so truly know your inner plankton,
it is a revelation not unlike discovering
an impacted toll booth upon the plains of Patagonia.
Woods nymphs sprinkle your path with bowling balls
while you dance and prowl in the sequined moonlight
with leftover heads of lettuce.
Where it not for the dizzy whiptail ambivalence
of your crumbling fleece,
could I never contemplate the ways
of so many merchant bankers in heat.
Your fingers are as divine as the pope's nostril hair.
The expansion (and resultant rapid cooling)
of your consecrated culotte
sings the golden turnip with the mulatto touch-typist in my pants.
Its a far far better thing I do than to require
that you find me a hammer and pummel me with all due diligence,
but yet remember that it is I, your solicitor,
who keeps you from aligning too much with the listerine salesman.
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