Other reality, other aperture,
comfortable in sleazy graphics and plastic verbalisations.
And that yellow cake, sponging the cream into my senses.
And her. Your woman.
You kept eating, while other men were consuming her.
Those heavenly heavy body extensions,
and the chocolate cracklings biting into sour bumps,
they construe me.
That filling the snoozing pool, I’m out of another reality.
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