cut under the wind the cheesy sight of it, to take a hold of it to bite of it. the napkin to the wind. reach and hand me the merlot, i bought some chilled. screw the cork like only you know. pass the glass, with ice and when the belly bloats and sags from gulping barreled, beefeater gin stick out your tongue and pant and and spread your thighs and just lean in. the way we do up here just you and me and that dog you call pup from way back when he laid belly up under-below the jagged end table to catch a dream, dripping one more sliced, that just keeps slipping from too much night wind strong and able too much griping, moaning is stable with smeared glasses, cheese and dough just might. just sit here without the light of tethered dreams, from out of a dog's grin. as i watch your yellow teeth's over bite from digging too deep in.