In the nefarious days of Paris__ 1994 _ working the street avenue of the learned boulevards
Jill wrote an epitaph a forum a song a throne of thing and feel. Not wishing for the past rudiment her blessing piled high the russet tussle of lips
as it went so it did ~:
Fanny her self the griever. His KNight was a pair of ropes in the love horn
way of womean and other becomings. Who was who in this world of ebb
becoming? the reflection which cast all darkness down__ Jill had
been away so long and, there was no night left, for the translator of
spills and light. Other animals crept along the predatory route
desire and desire’s heels. Couple to couple, safe house to safe in the
big city that is the way it went.
If fictions hold your song then Franny must belong.
Ruins are not are comedic. power grabs hustling you along the verb.
Capsized by fakes, voyeurs, two bit timers, and governments
sans song . O this word remembers a prince picking his bones
in the wheat.
She wears his throne like any handy ring. Wedded to his intent.
Garnered by his pleasure, waits and weep
Disappearing up the tunnel of discontent
If fictions hold your song then Franny must belong.
Ruins are not are comedic. power grabs hustling you along the verb.
Capsized by fakes, voyeurs, two bit timers, and governments
sans song . O this word remembers a prince picking his bones
in the wheat.
She wears his throne like any handy ring. Wedded to his intent.
Garnered by his pleasure, waits and weep
Disappearing up the tunnel of discontent
and its civilizations, its telnet fractures of post human trauma.
What could she do but see her way past the forest?
____________________
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