Sunday, February 21, 2010

cog and cognitions







Half-moon to the tom tom and hear Orpheus peevish. Rare to his going busted to stay. Not her girlie gold nor the stanchion of peace. But a prepared soup made for the coming thing to be river and other . Fine clasps on the button of her beloved jacket. Outside the hasps tightly shone. The blue shirt fitted so perfect. As a tense does as it rivets the forced edge. A bevel say and a militant mutant craft. Crested to her feet and clined to her Paris .


No one call. None appall and slip. And never near. But ever there. Over by the wayside. A Christ like thing on the tomb-side.



Mona married rhizome rubbing and rub-a dubdub to fortune's heel. Not a thing to be done about it!
She's worth millions in her ironside god.