Friday

think of the love....




Think of the lovers she's had. Their blinking trust and pairing need. One three five.

As her body got older she gypped every purchase on her song. Call that getting along, v.c.r. tremendous tenderness, Isabelle the waitress pining for the baby.In swaddling clothes and the plain ugly one holding out. For her imaginary stuff, her filtered song of cup and breed.




Mona rallies her tent and need heading back to the cave. It's shadow ridden world the irate air crackled with forget me not and weeds. She won't wrap a leaf round her head. Nor stoop to homely ladies. Plain-janes and downright ugly pluck ups. She's not that type. Of slut to bother her immanence with plain songs of transcendence.


It'd revolt her tears, revulse her peepers . Her sodden stomach no matter how it'd be girded wouldn't take the agony.



In the vacant vacuole the cave, the rowers plow and ply plough the cockamamie water . Oh you mean those double you see things? She's heart to hearing this sort of chop block chip of the old chopsuey. It won't do. Will it?


She's not Laertes to her hoofing heel, nor Thebes to her narrator's threaded tale.

She's not on the take, there'll be more . More to come and say.


____________________ it's not a surety but a guarantee she'll play to the end.