Sunday

Captures




Mona you aggravate me with your inn and hotel, yer bottle and tube and this tucking off of the golden folded garment. A stir to open your sides. A witch to kiss the eyelids of the toad and the yellow witch's broom.


Over the crazy plane she's murmuring its felt finger, the carpet word to its rapture carnal as the wheeling kneel.


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Her bellow song furs.

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Jill bows out a semiotics of pleasure. The enunciated prayertune.