Monday



Every sign is one of work. Not volume or fluted vines, or balustrades, or or the things. something anyhow, or synonymous to being. Ruddering its way back to the wheel.



If this pleases here, sun it. If it does then go for the hour of its inescapable folly. Narrated by knowing fools, we wink high heeled in the dark and burly avenue.


Crossing recrossing recognizing it's reckon spur spoon song. Why does the rill of s' crowd further its tangent?


A goddess wanted to be brilliant. She wore tawdry clothes to make her point, then for years, she could not make it back. Home as she would have liked to wished to wanted to , well guess you know the rest of that sort of sentencing.



She paddled in.
Nearly dawn
dusk had broken
buskin
bore
her.

No , No it's not like that.

As her body its

its colour

parade

somebody somber
listened u
cursed its faith
swore
by the raven-hunted thing.

Some named it.
What named it and how, beside that bed of apocalypse
what was there?


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