Spooge in the Church Crawlspace

In an adolescent spooning shed of kitten births and cherry candy
          newly hairy kids seek deviance in the rite
named after school, a cellar door propped in ungulate gloom,
          the creek bed zallyhoomed by Ronkle Spurkets,
picking crawfish talons from his heelrods,
          breaching the door and crowning the dirt with a lacy
tablecloth blanket, blinking tater-tot grease, now on all fours,
          laying down Germantle Waddykins, her seat buffed
with lacquer, throwing rune pine cones on her back
          as she snuffles her weight, wiggling on red clay.
Sirs, if he licked the ankh inked on her ankle,
          Ronkle could spend his blast like a locket
and run his hands through the air conjuring
          wrinkled gods, zapping heirlooms of her tartness.
As the igloo of his fangled mind is eager to empty
          needles from pockets, consecrate the room
for shadows needing to win mortal demonic repose,
          he suffers his tonsils to get forth lubed-up cars,
knee bones of kin, and the perspiration
          of Germantle’s lips gathered in a thought tube,
bubbling luminescence from the heat
          of her wolf coconuts, the hams of his loom,
jibbing the kites of burly deference from his teeth gaps,
          hearts of his sullied words in a corpus of sputters,
the catch in his throat like a wad of beef fat,
          his stubby stew of quails’ egg syllables,
Ronkle Spurkets grappling sprockets of sense,
          aching to saddle GW’s tablet to his quill’s stitchery,
glowing in the flint of his hinds and devilishly richer: I need you, sister.