by on June 6, 2018 :: 0 comments

To the core of nothing and everything
Divinity of ingest cidering bees, non-angelic in waggle,
Unlike moon-shine bootlegged, no peels fermented
after the pulp revealed in revealing itself.
Eve didn’t bite, he swallowed choking swollen pride
Denying themselves true calling
Needs of blossoming to bear fruit,

to stuff skin crackled
to toffee fest, dripping on lips before hardening,
to bake to perfection in heated silence in
bitter-sweet nocturnal juice, and gorged.

editors note:

No sweeter slice than that which cuts to the core of it. Not brazen trespass, but tasty repast. – mh clay

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