Sunday, February 24, 2013

~detail

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Being soprano was not her style. hers was chariots and buckwheat. Nervous smiles and  the witching hour dancing on a  bum. A dime for any laguna _ she's got an alias for a situation. Comedy's not her forte but goat's ass aint her bag either Anymore than hanging out with aunties and uncles , old Bobs, dead-beats, squares, and she's not keen on being seen as a palooka; don't like wiseguys, or sappy mud wearing satyrs. But shes' won with the wending ass of her girls. Stray she might be she's loyal as air, and wondering as chamber music as it cups its hand on her ass in the dark. O k shake those ringlets! wipe that smile off, no hold those big bad eyes up. Come closer you shirker. No more strikebreaking days for you honeypie. Your restless night are over. Singlular and plural subjecting objects to the ringsome throw of your awful laugh. She lived in a radio between the tubes and the rube~o she's a  hussy witha  pussiewussy!.

  Okay Mister Romeo.


_                                                          _ this intensity's beckoning your style.


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Saturday, February 09, 2013

dont hang on

  the ~E deposit of faith is what they called it. Mona's shakin' around the corner, she dont care, from aroun' the corner where she lived, first saw the film, smoking the teacher , the gawky translator wanting sex with her but too scared, too married to ask
,

now they get married to money, breadth, and death, crippling the union of difference with sameness confined  portrayed as difference,

but she knowing better dont hang onto that shit.

 In Montreal , it's always like that around the Main, St. Lawrence a , stolen street, a
language , trying to pretend? to be itself...

is that what you say? the loss of an accent and a posture an attitude

hold ye(r) perfection back honey we gonna bust this book.. it's travelling along the lane that counts a s a timbre counting makes a song bust up and run! hightail it to the hills!
A centaur leaping at its name. Imagine making love to a centaur how the horsewoman feels in the thighs, neck, and hips, the sigh , the moan of lust grabbing at all that ...
oil?

could be a wrenching apart of the knee joints at the tendons of a leg disappearing into the cloud of summer dust


 

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