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Whitney's Return

   
 

The uncanny side of vanish

   
 

shined the day you reappeared —

   
 

French rosebuds bathed in Spanish

   
 

gauze bobbed naked in the weird,

   
 
 

makeup kind of smeared.

   
   
   
 

The fête of your crash landing

   
 

turns as young as monkey fudge,

   
 

spiked pinkness ripe outstanding,

   
 

figged brown nipples bloused a nudge —

   
 
 

dour dicks too swilled to judge.

   
   
   
 

My mother locked up snowflakes,

   
 

jailed the tides, denied them bail:

   
 

"You're on thin ice, ..." (my shadow makes)

   
 

"if you don't mind your male!"

   
 
 

... tucked between my tail.

   
   
   
 

But now my blade, a squire of sorts,

   
 

arising from the gutter,

   
 

bestrides inside my jockey shorts

   
 

to trudge through the clutter

   
 
 

& know you like butter.

   
   
   
 

In watermelon ocean blood,

   
 

unsocked, I smell the human sea —

   
 

Oh, salty plunge, unleash the flood,

   
 

sweet darling, "Wait! I'm free!"

   
 
 

as love nails, "Whitney, ... me."