too soon full moon..not
I am writing to you in secret, under the threat of death, in absentia, corpus delirium, help me cherubim stop dash seraphim, things with fins and cartoon-ish lords of sin (breathe) lance me for I am struggling to breathe and aching to cleave skin from bone. Tonight I feel alone. And so, to dialogue, let it pass.
When I introduce myself to you dearest wonder, teeth a chattering, I am compelled to ask, 'Do you find this behaviour flattering or much to my demise, is it but a Sunday bore?
The Lone Ranger.
PS.. I too have a penchant for a certain thinly spread Victorian whore, pedaling her thread bare wares in velvet covered rooms of yore.
1) You see I like her smell; well worn book of law written over and over, over and over again, inscribed with leaky foreign plastic pens held by hands who, I wager, held her groans.
2) You see I adore her man; doors slammed against my fingers, holding back oceans wrapped tight in woolen mittens, smiting all the kittens with knowing licks, some circus tricks and salad bowls brimming full with gore.
3) You see I obsess about her dress; snow white skin suit return to sender breast heroic sequined quest requests pressing tender buttons against the wall, dressing lambs as mutton's, provoking insipidly inspired pauper flautist palette cleansing calls and providing surrealistic home movie vision of the great big final farewell fall.
Is this a call? Or is this.
Wild days wasted idly lost in,
(scrap that line about a jealous haze and keep the one about). A so soft mec-han-I-cal maze.
Let me count the ways. Let me count the ways I've counted days and muddled lines from west of west end plays. This is surely the bends.
These were the westerns I only wish I had wrote. Sail me back their full moon. With this familiar prayer, sail me back their full moon in your lucid, lattice worked working tumbleweed boat.