rove as love - almost in the centre

every time when I walk outside I meet you with cloth dense and prickly
trying to keep smiling wide tasting your winds mixed with sickly
fumes, which you call your aroma. Under scarf of mine there are two gifts,
one is my smile and other is common lard, called lipstick proudly. So you kiss
my boots with sticky pool of your dirt, your mouthes are black, thoroughly treated with rime.
I want to talk about art and be heard over the dumbness of countless eurasian slime
in clubs and in archways and gateways, all the places where you grab the hold of my spine,
making my muscles of heart to blaze to bring light to the beings who have crossed the line,
helping them in their wanderings in post-spiritic bardo. I'm trying to sing
but there comes out only screams akin to shaman's. You, as sky-nailed, hovering C
note, blessing me by your tin-tiled wings to go and get another glass to keep tension.
I am charmed by the tombs of your kings as well as by spew serving as door to another dimension.
You caress my face by your smooth pavement, spitting at me with clots of solid wet snow. I'm just trying
to lick off its final sweetness as small kitten, feeling through sleep coming up laugh of Chaos till crying.