Her Hula-hoop Is Her Hippy Heart

Her hula-hoop sombrero-ed like spirals of galaxy dust,
a hippy hue that held train-wreck breath for burgeoning slacks in the room, a
catalyst of reactions that made the universe wait for her stop. He
watched as if she didn't know his atoms had birthed the chemicals of sex.

And, just for that it was unbuttoned, the barefooted pride of
exposed skin - her
hips often rolled the clocks of time like that
two at a time, heedless
as the fermented wheat gems that bounced around the planets in her gut. It was
the bursts of orgone energy that ripped wormholes in her pants,
the ratcheting gears of dawn that lured a morning suck and fuck, her endearing
laugh that lead to tingly shotgun highs billowing there
in the night as a culmination of his and her' auras
spinning webs of light across the room:

They both held out for the belly of the keg to burst
For inebriation to drive them back to together
For bees to pollinate a sticky affection so they'd never leave

They hoped themselves to sleep where they would hope the same thing,
stuck on the circadian calms of her hula-hoop that'd always be her hippy heart.

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