Saturday, April 09, 2011

Yikes

  Sharing her song word sex. Hex to the double union. An auction an unjunction to freeze the unseen woman . Fresh from the powder room. She's roared back to the quay. Along the Paris

pier nothing but Poe in the pillars, pie in the sky, she's belted around the good bad and ugly, the goons.


Those way she's silver to the room and the moon's going in backward to her  well. Her well-scene cage and the  sibilant hour    ~ .  IF she lays cotton down there's no perambulator for the thing. Then ebb tide tilt and spending forward she's knows she's got grass green. Having hung out the wash, and a  moiled sky  . No combat furthers her vibrant modesty. Nor waiting for a smoked out verb, a register nor a regiment of cabin liners. Habderdasher never miss a moment. Amber and green and uphilted around her low button shoe.

She's remembered the memory and frosted its taste. Glass and silver and orange crates. And she's certainly not a two time town crier!
Huff she goes and comes round the end of the page lancing her pace. A giddyup gallop  wisens her up. Over the top she comes and this way she sees the end of the  inexhaustible hour,a  radiant marks her place. A breath a lung  a ringing cache of panhandling phantom union. And not closer than a cup tie she's made it . Her bet. Back to the Sorbonne she arrives, and now it's 1978. Early and easy on her career modest efforts to break the unity of the spare rib, and sapient to her Reason.


So Jill and the rest of the gangling gals.


                                            Everyone knows heading whichway   ~ .