I watched you trying not to exceed, exhilarate, entwine yourself to bumbling. It was a starry vastness that contained your fealty to . . . This nest (glasnost), this fever, and this cleft revealing habeas corpulence, reminded me of valet service in the miniature holding Tankeray. Yes, you, Violet. I'm addressing your furred derm. I mean busily weighing thoroughfares as a way through folk tales. If a priest has little more to say than domino partaking, then simply reserve a seat and watch. Listen. Watch some more. If a free person can rigidify the known comparison between theory and precise indifference to what will come, then why be knockabout. Why be strained. Why be northern. When I was a mute little conspicuous entreaty of a sort, you salted where I'd been. You motioned to my seeding of the layout. All of this, some yard. Some bardic whole tones, to which anyone could march. I think I know your avid way of reading into pyres. And people with agendas. And gender neutral fireworks. All of that we share, we spare no challenge. Tea is how we wear our gloves to have receded into memory. For which we depend on others to intend. Even rescind, when there is time.
Alignment with the daffodils or surname privacy, some patch to claim, a way of talking as a way of feeling (better than)
Wunnderful, as usual, miss sheila e! Though I hope Violet keeps her furred derm and doesn't succumb to laser hair removal!
Postmodern Poetry: Xanax Pop by Lewis LaCook
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