Management

Until they love the leash, it’s a lash at best, a goosebump stood straight to whip in wait.  The heat after fabric is for follicles whose passage is laid beneath a rash.

Until they loathe the beast, it’s a bath at least, a bloodhound turned retriever, a fella for the fuck of letting, a loosening of stocking.  Pull tight my pudding.  A touch is on that tangent.

A nose is pointed.  Whose I pierced through paper sheets once.  White was the makeup.  All of this is made up.  This is the boredom of bedroom left to its inevitable dogshit.  Its undodgeable, goddamnit undoggable, digs.  

So they wait for the food.  To them our feet are our faces.  Lead them through the park.  Forget where the tongue has been.  Shit bitch, lemme.