cobalt

----> Down a staircase, we board an upward train to the heart of Hot City.
Bags, vials, tubes, and gear in hands.
The station is clogged with bodies, and sticky with puddles of pain.
And so too, my scrotum. My underwear compresses my sweaty sack,
as trains harbor boxcars of twitching passengers.
The Queens bra anchors her breasts while I
hold my breath in anticipation of dream moments that will never occur.
The speckled inside of her underarm , the heated
basilica of her crotch, the sour odor of bakery confections in time of famine.

Ah, but shes with Bill. Better move on. THE MISSION TO HOT CITY.

The train bounces on minute bends of imperfect tracks and ever
so slightly, so too do the bangles of the Queen,
shifting just so many micro-millimeters beneath the soft
hull of her shirt. Those tits are there, ripe for tongue and tangy for asking.

And if my face were buried in the fluff of her steam right now, I could nose
the sweet foam of lust infection.

Were going in. I survey the train quickly to check the angle of eyes.

No one is looking at my hat this time.

Too bad, anyway, I have no place to put it but on my head.