A surfacing, a foreword: the prescience of an ache. Texture rolls off the tongue like velvet. Lurch and buckle.

Names emulsifying, but not really pellucid. Glaring lacquer, agog. Nil, but no, not ex nihilo: nugatory alluvium like the woolliness of a dog’s breath or the fever of its bark. Not lacking for luster, just gumption. The knurl in the lathe that the nerves don’t catch.

Splish splash goes the surfactant straddling the miscible, lollygagging or it could just be gagging. We are going to glom onto the gleam, or you will let it go. I guess that’s not fair of me.

It is shifting or I am hard at hearing, but another word for skimming is love.

Onomatopoetico by Ragnhild May & Kristoffer Raasted

The hubris of depth and solidity when surface recumbs pelagic. Gilt, adventitious, tending to burl. Get fucked, Freud, sore gums, comma splice, I’ll pinch at the erotics of the rind. Because the envelope is not a carcass and the hangnails pique and pick and litter, as promiscuous as dust.

By whose missive are you detecting the sweetness? You would lick at it, but you wouldn’t touch it. I still don’t know what you wanted from me. You couldn’t touch it.

Onomatopoeia subs the conceit of representation with the yearn of approximation, never quite there. But at least doesn’t deny that taste is a kind of welcome trespassing. He says he tried. Calling it a haunting would be too easy.

There is no plumbing, but the water’s just fine.