greasy wet gold lust

shes the kind of kind kindling that
kind of

you know,
the kind of kindhearted kindergartner
that, while grounded, kindly grinds
and whispers
and sneaks peeks daintily through
the stained glass mausoleum
of your pyramid-scheming,
gold-lusting nipple vesicles
those greasy wet chest testicles
the bladder-like, fluid filled sac
of pustular mischief
that turned my stern taciturn silence
into green, green ambient noises
punctuated by harp strings and echoing sines

ill admit it
i dont get it
any of it, at all
ive been walking from one gallery to the next
nodding my head in agreement
all the while stalling for time
trying to think of something to say
or do
and nothing comes out
i have nothing to offer at this very moment
because im just not feeling it
it being this
and this being whatever this is