A Material Mother
All things dwindle fast, on left handed Sundays. But with new vistas they hit the heights directly on course quieted by leaves. More arduous the encounter more charged is the silence. She met with kings, and branded rulers. With almost no hints, without a suggestion. There’s no lip service in freedom of speech, you speak your piece. She made her plans to fill up long lines with stuff of illness. World weary every day, she deals in pantomime.
Bad Apples
Getting stuck in the teeth before each performance. They will fight this war during the Age of Mud. It makes you wretch with eyes that shine. The machine won’t give any more amorous signs. As for rapture, and as for pain as far as coma and for moods. Finally a revival, by icelike games, from daft opinions. Recorded by the brain are the dying concerns about consuming meat. We’re on our way to the meek forest. With an audience for your last book. The Rape of the Lock is the only one I need.
Exhumation Games
If the lotus came to be I can’t tell even if I try. It finds its place in fields of mud in boot imprints. We figure out, a watery grave someday withers. We’re called upon to burn our houses houses in surrender to the three degrees. Taking good stock of a rigged chance refresh the mouth with a taste of zinc. Lure the willing those most able, easy to convince to begin revving their twin engine. Coaxing them back into their lean years. These antics entitle them to know if they’ll drown.
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