Necking At The Drive-In Movie

I’m glad their rouge cream is widening in the cokebox and their movie is a liquid camera pupil like ice cream upstream in a dream about vulvas.

I’m glad their rash catalogue is furious with the boygirl voice of the boy with the brown bowl haircut that mangles the place piecemeal with his tiny teeth and his tongue.

I’m glad their shriveled roses dilate like a fascist fantasy of ants in a fire. I’m glad they are a Mexico of parrots melting their crests. I’m glad their sweet ravings cream in the gardens of stone.