Wednesday

Mona has a shock truck. She's stuck on grumble and gum, accidents for her bum. She's trucked her waving banner high as a byte. She wont wear clothes and sign checks. She's checkermate to her sated pate. Clothing wear, and ball bearings keep her safe. That is, safe not as in cod and fish, net stockinged or china. Something whistled forward her kissed dive. A face the Natatorium, a lady sauntering backward in the sea. It's the way its hung. As Venus de Milo to her vessel, the sea the seven seas. Her mother her brother her sister. Shell fish to her weeding pelt. Not a citied care to wonder bra, she's caught her colt. Not a piss and vellum suit, nor a tie to tear her cigarette puffing chew. She's borne to her five awkward sense. Blight_ening and thunder.

Follow an empty finger to the loon ~ .