Radio World Skylines

Her semblance was illumined, brightened with alluring reds and luscious pinks
by the neon lights and city pyres, on Fury Street and Thirty-Seventh,
(though this she could not see, as swelling, sinning, were her spotty pupils,
broad and brown, and thick with the scent of butterscotch, fragrant, flowery,)
from beneath the smoldering skylines of a dancing Radio World,
tuned to the dark and dashed with the desperate, and craving for a sordid scamper,
alive, and living, live and aloof with a sapphic eloquence of her lips upon
her woman’s tender, warm, and tickled neck,
or lingering between her bashful thighs, and longing for peace,
or silver-lined sedation,
that could only trick or tell, or treat to the curling chorus of her sweet, breath
or sugar lips, or tiny, torturous fingertips
into the seraphim suns of her candy-sweet, and glorious, and captivating cosmos.