On end

                                                          Mona's moved into the kitchen and Jill's hanging on her head.     Lovers. Of dogsand other bodies. a Blue lamp,a kidding goat's skin.. something a jazz working up to its denouement     ~ . Palavers and crystals  coaching the ramy evening     ~.


Mona's hurried  four score and ten, the blue ship, the rocking moat. Jill's boot-heels
tender to the touch, an oedipal haloo and leading rhythm section. Cut that baby making your head stand on end, and wonder to the end. A dock? She means a wharf made of the pristine choice of her lips. 






She's gazing in wonder at him talking. About his school chum and other brigands a moonlit anecdote and the  balmy hesitation of early autumn. But if she gets ready to sail off to Europe none of it will matter unless there's a war. Sail! are you nuts! crackers!disjointed! No, it's the full moon of full moons hankering down the low autumn sky    ~ and the fields are practised . At what? at being . 






Being? lovers and other secret  lavender paramours.






i'll buffo and buffo your buffalo house down . On the marvelous practicum of your love. 
And if this way she sees me good, if not what then . it's the round the hill and the half-sweater. Beckoning by  billet and fragrant two young women in their thirties waiting to cross the street. And  the avenue glitters with hope, their hope lascivious with the wind. 


No 'lamnetala' this but cantilene to your over-wanting sensuality. 
Who's? Jill and Franny's, (the young lady V)  and the skirt. Mona's not 'into' flowers. Say,  daffodils, daisies, and chrysanthemums. She's  rendered them, had them, held them, cultivated them. But recall them? Not a  chance .   She's whiskered by cuts and crates and  no flower remains in her hiphead, this war-locked  remaindered brain. Without a creamy road a brushing pre-eminent to her path along ward what would she do? Not a thing at all actually. Virtually, she's got seven lives to give. so , So what the hell. She's the  twittering  ironist of annealment and scrolling a very true tuba tune. Her lute's the fickle passage  between room and  sun.






If this way she uncovers the pellet she'd find her way back to the reredo, the repetitious 
concoction. A pittance compared to what no one knows else  . If she's fishing she's headed to Cuba, to other masters  of the deterritorialized and the Silenus, the silence that encrusts her worshipping .


 Now if thighs mattered she's be on the first train home. On the steps of the Sorbonne, what did it matter _ it was summer , wild and heat heat heat  heat! what a monster! a lover of trucks and other unions besides big digging hips... Not a muster but a seal. If choose to,  she'd foster tum-ti-tum,  she'd ring a wish of hamstrings and  harmonies paid by the hour, but no such things work in her favor.  Living on the bum is best made this 
way, begetting not foraging the link between sun and eye. If this shapely thing's her nave then she's best behooved in the tropics of yawning .