the bluest of the sweet soft

. . .inference. . .
shades ho(llo)w
fog trepidy gone blinky

[[[[[[stylewise]]]]]]
palps my little play window

plastic
klink
trinketical
ballistic pink
the wall port
is a dry place
and the situ
and the seeking
and the drywall
and the cortical

the few the lively promptness
you are mitigated from
my breastplace said the fellow
piercist
failing to have
NO ticed
that I rampage
and I farthing
and I omnicode
and I beast

you might have been the blogroll of the flute

you might have drimmed you might have streamed
you might have lost the figurative girdle of my quitswing
altogether if and if and if and if

the sifted chart poise lamped its way into a lumpen
mendicant pro tem

then I would have voided your piquant yet savory indicative
I would have pomped your must
I would have chorded for your fiddlesticks
I would have drafted this imported frost

but that was then and this is Houston