Bus, spelled as Buss, means Kiss

There’s lots of bleeding, including menstrual blood, on a cycle, along with the moon,

When blood gets wasted, in a rag, so called, disposed of, without ritual, or a nod or a wink or a battlefield littered with cannon fodder,

When the fodder is in the shock,

And the shock is in the nerves,

And the orgasm of a mother, recoiled like Big Bertha, in WWI, or in gun blasts beyond Cornwall, silent sentinel, to disrupt the blood, for everyone, on Xmas, Xmas I, Xmas II, or III, or Twitter, perhaps XXXXmas (above 16 in many states),

The moon, courting the sun, though that’s inappropriate, masked blood. Spilled blood. Good God, we know it is so. Blood is bold, and bone is cold, No one wants to die, it is no monument bones remain. The nerves?

We bob, we weave, we weave nerves.

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