B. C. Hagglund

Whirl, whirl up your sharp icicles, O sea. . . Beat against my naked body, shimmering in the flaky foam of your breakers, O sea. . .Go lap-lap-lap against my quivering. exulting, pinky-fleshed, Adamic body, O sea. . .In a word, maul me about like three tigers and seven leopards mixed into one. . .But for gods sakes dont touch the spot behind my left hind ear. . .Because I have a boil there.

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