Grimbeau

Happy is the man who can bear the things he cannot change – Schiller

Each time insurgent

Wind surges spank opulent

crimson drapes and naughty

gusts arouse dormant

gooseberries on exposed,

soft wanton thighs all sigh

Lush,

chocolate ground juice

breaches ripe knapsacks,

glibly squirting,

soiling deep plush pile rug.

On

garish cushions we float maculate:

spoiled flotsam; jetsam of anarchy,

Two headed orphans

scowling quadrophrenes

brazen twisted Sisters scream.