Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Veiling Mona

yOU'D think she was shipping out when she's only (really) just arrived composing recompensing her loverthrong.

 Mona  veils (wore) her feet   ~ OF course the government was nuts ~ she dandled between the being of something and nothingness and the boring  right of death the rights of death. the dead beat knoll of nights on the catatonic Galt she bypassing the heft and woof by the slumber. And the ring the well-knit The capricious candor of a lover without. A body hammering, a shitty metaphor, between her tents of sex and libidinous rumours around her aging reach. Not a quest but led to the absence desert and the remaining alones. 
  Along this flood her body without organs was not a place to stay.A contour and a shady Rembrandt charcoaled along the boat, and the dyke rising the swell of the beast.

This (old) body's born in summer . Arrives in September as. the fall light comes down sweeping and pulsing over and across the lanes and backs of balconies, over the rooftops and sheds. And the lonesome. and hurting body cries. its worn day carried back to source. and Of Course this is love and its old typography. and the miracle. not the wonder of cold heart cash. but her on her crutches, and the goose the limp footed her . with her fanned breasts and holy ass.

If anyone of which way this, she was better. Cared along a path heard by many chose by some. and then a few. handy to a handful of its concupiscent haste.

No  one knows better than Mona about the  coahahvered  3       ~.


Sunday, October 16, 2011

It could rain

 Jill is zip and peel with her bookshelves rounding every shoulder. Something along the tine and the kine and ringaround the rose and amazing  .

O really.

Yes, and then some others. Tobacco and the ones coming over their river. Like a revel, a tent and camping on the street, the broken avenue   ~.

Love has no age or moon   orbit among the gulping stars, and the stratified lovers. Their glue holding the universe together.

It could worry the rain and fiddles the strong strings worrying their way to the vestments. And the vents, the haft of the boom. And the kelly rope. Not close to any  thing.
Aware of wondering about her nearest plateau she's moved earth and geese. Slipping the ruins. Wondering if all is nought.

The shivering prince and the bumpy hug the ragged hubcap, a voice droning complaining the 'miseres' of daily consumer life, a capitalist whiner.   These too have met their end, as the multitude moves on gorgon and grove grapes of joy ~ Humming. The little dragon taking . And the rowboat, hushed by the twine of the leaves ~.
                                 Hover near the end of her tipping face,a kiss to be found in the extremist weather    ~ clement or unclement   ~.