Otiose Arches wasted in the square –
sand bridges are art.
Attachment to masonry –
specific passion in readers,
of some, even our lovely Camera Obscuras sing.
– playing with a reclamation of poetic history,
sigma stalks stigmata,
evens the score
beneath shadowed spindles,
pricking both finger and tongue
before sleep hastens
visions and jumbled horizons.
They ate delicacies and memories, while sipping their tea – the patio overlooked the Piazza of Pernicious Palindromes. They are doing the reclamation work – like the only thing that took their eyes through this stage of stagnating molecular management, clams clinging to teasing conundrums and pileated pie-plates.
Themed, the writing works sleight of hand, and weathered faces became whitish granite, turning into crinkly text – partners next to the rosebushes, chosen by a clamorous contextual cat, scampered midst the paper cups and the penumbrae, kleptomania of the soul – and thoroughly timed, like a charcoal portrait slipping intransigently into a mirrored reflection of dancing clock hands, out walked a wise witch carrying a wearying expression in her catchall.
It is archaeology – they wore down dusty carpets, together with fascinating motifs – your opinions cascaded from your lips, like a Ouija planchette in a candle lit room. Used fingers rippling hard, well provenanced providence, thank weak words for those two women’s ghost tenement.
The Love-friend gently partakes of kisses and anxiety- the integral integer institution sent Halloween historicism stoically into solipsism, such sweet marrow-misery.
Indigenous asemic dialect –
too novel for scorpion-hands,
or owl eyes.
After you, came no-nounce-words, like a cesarean nonunion, leaping over a moonlit cow – so, who had the opera tickets in their pearl purse the whole time, while the bus wailed about the triumph of non-euclidean tetralogy and cavernous isomorphic Cheetos – it wasn’t the ophthalmologist…
Have taken information on southerly entopic-writing art fisticuffs because doing warm spadework beneath a regime revolts the wavering doe. They talked for hours over the rims of broken cups and cut diamonds. Then that drowned magazine buffered the recorder. Doesn’t whispering lips instill the I into each All?
The bathroom strikes over the sphere. It has taken comments and reevaluated the artworks’ online snow; those eyes then upped responses: all dark dramatic monologues must attend the evening dance dilemma.
You down stories before my deep night forgives wanton anger; coming off wonderful settle-challenges, the Used Shark shakes out thanks, like small mercies in a November wind.
When can anonymous porters enlarge a needles needless resemblance to Thursday’s rumination? By the sweep of sleep, they secretly to go fish – keeping this silent slippage between the lines of commentary – and have in us a repository of tears and rust hares.