3 hours, 27 minutes

It's all music in your
spinal chord
hyper-linked
underlined
melodies
marking your
mooooooooovveesssssss
against
the checker board
that's empty
in Washington Square.

You should probably start
fucking me like a rag doll
and
I'll probably start kissing you
only long enough
to keep you wanting more.

Nobody knows why
or how
or
[silence the formatting process to retain creative individuality]
why you would want
or how you could try
or when you will remember
or why
or

don't throw my legs up over your shoulders
and
scream like
your fingering
a centigrade century's worth of
studs' girlz
with overly-defined curlz
because you can't stop picturing me coming up your driveway
with my ripped-up
torn-off
bra-free
sex
moooooooooooving
along the yardstick
to mark
off
six foot two
one hundred and eleven pounds
of bubblegum candy cake.

Maybe I'm a little crazy, but I think you might be a little crazy for me.